The thing about the old one about
The tree in the forest and nobody’s around
And how it falls maybe with a sound,
Maybe not, is you throw the part out
About what there isn’t or there is,
And the part of it that haunts is still there.
Still there in that the happening, the clear
Crashing there, still encompasses
Everyone condemned to missing it
By being out of the immediate
Vicinity. Out of it the way
You’re out of all vicinities but one
All the time—excepting when you’ve gone
Out of all vicinities to stay.



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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 Number 3, on page 30
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