"And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant
panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away---" T.S.
Eliot, from East Coker
It is like last Sunday,
When the church bells all pealed out our names,
And our song rolled down from the towers,
And poured out over the glitter and dust of the parking lots,
And swept into the streets beyond,
And not a soul save me noticed,
Bowed as we were in our private intent,
And I only nodded to the passing,
Of the notes that meant me,
Over my morning coffee.
Oh, it wasn't every bell really,
Or even a church at all, just maybe the cheesy,
Carillon in the strip mall across the way,
Pounding out stridently,
"The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow."
And yesterday and today,
In separate incidents, a Subaru,
And a nondescript primer gray behemoth,
Bleated out my name in traffic,
Though I wasn't paying much attention,
Gripped as I was in my latest brush with death,
Between red lights.
And what are we to make of,
The irises, and lilies, and snap-dragons,
That arrange themselves in the supermarket,
In secret alliteration, Eye rhymes, and riotous semiotics,
As we pass by in snug propriety?
And the radio,
And the television talk shows,
And the music spectaculars weave,
Seamless backdrops for us,
As we fly between our tiny passions
And what are we to make of,
Cryptic patterns of shadow on glass,
Significant pauses in the bank line,
The chill deja vu as your eyes slide,
Over a magazine cover?
What do they all mean?
These clockwork epiphanies,
When we're not paying much attention?