About that cobweb



He asks if I am a perfectionist, and I

have no answer.  About some things I am

meticulous, but.

 

“For instance,” he says, “do you care

about that cobweb hanging from the ceiling

over there?”  He gestures towards

my dining room.

 

No, I don’t care about the cobweb.

I can’t even see it.  A day later

I’m still looking for the cobweb, which he

perhaps invented.  I don’t care

about the cobweb or the dust or the clutter

of books and the mess of papers.

 

Clutter is poetic.  Mess is full of surprises.

Out of chaos came all particular things--

the wood in the walls and ceilings and in the

frame of the bed, and also the dustballs

under the bed and the cobwebs

hanging from the ceiling.

 

                        In the meditative stillness

under the bed, various minute particles (dust,

cat hair, my hair, the invisible emanations of my

own skin, of my living and aging) find each other

and build intricate frail structures

                        that have their own perfection.

 

Clutter reflects the world inside that is

not, is never, clean lines and polish, never

orderly--the stirring, thriving, fertile inner

world out of which

                                    come dreams, come

visions, come intimations and intuitions, Eureka and

the angels

            he claims to believe in.

 

In the tangled soft cavern that is

my unmade bed, the Muse lingers.

© Anne Le Dressay