You remember the story (it’s not yet over)
of the two
brothers who both rebel against the world,
they each hide at the verge of civilization,
one in a shack miles from nowhere,
the other living content in a hole in the ground:
that one, you know, after he comes back
marries his high school sweetheart,
(a philosopher no less)
becomes a saint in the public eye, until
at last he turns his darker brother in—
the lonely northern one in the business of mailing death.
There’s an argument somewhere, the story unravels.
There’s a cat who mewls themes from Beethoven.
The dreams every morning in strange languages,
the perusal of deep books no one has written,
There is something about your voice I cannot hear,
I
cannot hear your words. [4]