The Book of the Dead Man

Solo una vista fragmentaria del poema de Marvin Bell. Habla también, de nuevo del infinito, de la nada, de la unión que tiene a menudo esto en la mente humana con la muerte y el olvido. Habla del vinculo de infinito con lo pequeño, el detalle, corporiza conceptos tan amplios y vagos y les da su momento, su instante. Son conceptos que parecen opuestos pero que fluyen, en un circulo sin fin, inexpresables en su totalidad, una totalidad inalcanzable... 

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He is emptied, he is the resonant cavity of which he spoke when it was music he was thinking of.
Let him be now the leftover button of his work shirt.
Permit him his fading mirror, his sputtering circuits, his secrets, his tears, his noonday duels with the sun.

Don't bet he won't be born.

Before all this, this that is so much, he was not himself.

He was the free heat of space and then the salt of the earth.

He was the ring around the moon, foretelling.

The dead man had no station when he came to be, just a strange nakedness in the light.

He wrote the book of nothing and no-time that entombed all time and all that took place in time.
The dead man could not be hammered by analysis.
Let him horn in on your fury, whatever it was, and it will abate.
The energy that became form will disperse, never again to be what we were.
Look out the window to see him, no, the other one.