Without A Title
The two of them were left so long alone,
so much in un-love, without a word to spare,
what they deserve by now is probably
a miracle – a thunderbolt, or turning into stone.
Two million books in print on Greek mythology,
but there’s no rescue in them for this pair.
If at least someone would ring the bell, or if
something would flare and disappear again,
no matter from where and no matter when,
no matter if it’s fun, fear, joy or grief.
But nothing of the sort. No aberration,
no deviation from the well-made plot
this bourgeois drama holds. There’ll be a dot
above the “i” inside their tidy separation.
Against the backdrop of the steadfast wall,
pitying one another, they both stare
into the mirror, but there’s nothing there
except their sensible reflections. All
they see is the two people in the frame.
Matter is on alert. All its dimensions,
everything in between the ground and sky
keeps close watch on the fates that we were born with
and sees to it that they remain the same –
although we still don’t see the reason why
a sudden deer bounding across this room
would shatter the entire universe.
(from Salt 1962)