I think what he means to say is each thing speaks for itself,
and can be known by its history, and, the language we use each day,
is the best explanation of our History that we have on hand.
He continues, explaining that each day has its own menu,
but then he goes on and on, as weather moves, yet does not go away.
History of an Inner Life
But for now, it is out into a night which is less than too anything,
so I leave the sweater on the veranda.
Its weave reminds me of the German seamstress I met on the bus,
who reminds me of Einstein’s mustache, our relative notion of history,
each mistake I have ever made, the needles of time piercing my skin –
and all of this is what counts as an inner life.
Time is a God
History is the measure of time, and,
in the measuring of time, the discrete abstractions,
seconds – minutes – hours – the language of time
must be grasped like stones, quiddities, almost persons,
for history without pauses is Infinite Time, that grand abstraction,
refusing to be tamed by our notions of fairness –
acting like a God.