Spring All Too Of­ten

New England Review - - Table of Contents - Wil­liam Lo­gan

The aza­leas fire up, roseate scars hid­ing old wounds. We're in their ter­ri­tory. It must be like re­li­gion, flar­ing into con­tri­tion, sub­mis­sion.

Res­ur­rec­tion, too, I sup­pose. I think of Co­leridge walk­ing down­river to Ch­ester­ton, to pray. He might have sleep­walked those col­lege years, as so many of us did—

but mid­way he joined the army. Fate is also what re­fuses you, set­ting a torch to the newly aban­doned house. To be ig­nored by Mem­ory is not the worst

come­up­pance. Even the best por­trait in the end van­ishes into craque­leur. They also serve who only stand and hate, said the poet, more or less, he of the devil's party.

I'll go af­ter the hedges, one of these days.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.