The naive writing
There has been no journalist
for thousand and a thousand
years since those who borrowed
mere things without granting things
facthood. Let us begin no further than there.
Who is Livy but a was in time’s slew.
Or his distant kin Burke who
sought other things than happened here.
Bacon lambasted into his wasting
of youth electric, and Frenchmen
wrote of consequences where friendship
conquered ponds past the Atlantic,
if not Atlantis boggled.
And the menial reportage—
all others, from the fist of Joshua
son of J. to the desert virgins
we lament as fathers, to saints
sporting all the dragons of Asia
in their jaws, to holocausts
of little women buried flat in
flatlands Christians burned in 1950—
to the beardless writers of all metaphysics
quenching with their palms the holy
seat of desires, that archetypal
stub strange to reason, strange to saving
no matter the seconds wasted to it—
in what else lies but by my grace says loudly
let it be unsaid that I spoke from books,