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Lot’s
Wife
How simple the pleasures of those childhood
days,
Simple but filled with exquisite satisfactions.
The irridescent labyrinth of the spider,
Its tethered tensor nest of polygons
Puffed by the breeze to a little bellying
sail
Merely observing this gave infinite pleasure.
The sound of rain. The gentle graphite veil
Of rain that makes of the world a steel
engraving,
Full of soft fadings and faint distances.
The self-congratulations of a fly,
Rubbing its hands. The brown bicameral brain
Of a walnut. The smell of wax. The feel
Of sugar to the tongue: a delicious sand.
One understands immediately how Proust
Might cherish all such postage-stamp details
Who can resist the charms of retrospection?
- Anthony Hecht
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