[previous] [next] [more by this author] [home]
William Meredith

A mystic in the morning, half asleep,
He is given a vision of the unity
That informs a small apartment, barefooted,
He takes the long view of toes in the bath-tub
And shaves a man whose destiny is mild.
He perceives hidden resemblances; particularly
He is struck by how breakfast equipment imitates her,
The object of his less than mystic dream.
Sunlight, orange-juice, newsprint, kitchenware:
Is it love's trick of doubling? Everywhere
Like those little dogs in Goya, objects show
A gift for mimicry. His coffee is morose.
A clock goes off next-door where probably
Someone has parodied his dream; and here
The solemn little mongrels of the day
Stare out at him, trying to look like her.
They leer and flirt
Let saints and painters deal
With the mystery of likeness. As for him,
It scares him wide awake and dead alone;
A man of action dials the telephone.

[previous] [next] [more by this author] [home]