When the opaque dusk swells,
The broken street lamp’s
Pearlescence of glass shards,
Overshadows the warmth of light bulb
The night is the unsung hero,
Catching the pirouettes of silver slivers
and fixing them
to the stars.
The bulb’s venous fuses,
The wires’ bony architecture,
The tenacity of the current,
Convulsing for terminal luster,
Flickering, fading
To eternal quietus
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Fiercely Tender: The Simple Complex World of Michael Ondaatje’s Novels
Shortly afterwards in that novel we encounter a celebration of the body, grime and all, unimpeded by this abstraction called mind. While writing the body might seem not altogether unusual, my point is that you cannot simply assume its naturalness. Language, even fictional language, is so much of a mentally...
