Another rewrite, or as I like think: applying what I have learned…
Each thing speaks for itself and in speaking
connects into the fabric of things.
At least I think that is what Wittgenstein means to say.
He goes on to explain that each day has its own menu,
corn becomes popped, eggs become Benedict and so on,
pushing us along until we realize that time began as waiting.
And so it continues, as weather moves yet does not go away.
In the measure of time the abstractions
seconds – minutes – hours
are grasped like stones, quantities, almost persons.
But for now, it is out into a night which is less than too anything
so I leave the sweater on the veranda.
It’s weave reminds me of the German seamstress I met on the bus,
of Einstein, granddad’s beard, the needles of time piercing my skin –
and this is what counts as an inner life.
What counts as History is what you find around the corner,
in a bar, at the office, the moments you pause are the life you have.
History without pauses is infinite time.
That grand abstraction refusing to be tamed by our notions of fairness –
acting like a God.