Like Pushkin's Tatiana—Among the Many Some Already Know and Always Knew

 

In between the body
qua journal and qua wall,
some of them look
for another locum,

perhaps even
for a fresh new
classic form—

which always reads
like a prophecy in verse,
and makes us all

keep guessing,
yet never quite getting it right,
though it never fails

to land ideas
upon our shoulders.

And those women,
within this timeless form,
somehow always know

more about us
than any others ever can.

So when I think of it now,
those epiphanies seem to tell me

that existence comes folded
within a cosmic dragon's coils,

of which most glimpse
only a few glittering scales

or merely the tips—

while they somehow always know,
and somehow never forgot,

that all which truly is
has come upon a long,
long, long tail.