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Eye La View
One of 50 numbered copies signed by Benton. Yes! Capra Chapbook Number 33.
39 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1975
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November 3, 2024
“I love the way we tip over the furniture when we do it.
How some things seem to hide under the bed. The way we seem to be under the table. How the flowers fall, and the rug gets horny. Even if there is a difference, there always is. My leg, your tablecloth, etc.”
—
“You stop wondering.
The places tell you that,
where, and they remain
the traced lines, the funnel,
which came seriously, even
unsuspected, and looked odd.
Somewhere between actually
refusing to abet the raw
weather, it is easy to be
certain, it is morning, and
nothing shows behind it,
not so clearly cold, really.
They are still where you
left them, quiet and still.
The fact is they are meant
to be. They could be anything.
The stabs at recognition seem
sensible and electric almost.”
—
“Sunday. It is finally this that we have become. A reformulation on the other side of the looking-glass: us again! Your ‘mistake.’ It is out of that world that keeps chang. ing to contain now the two of us, now one of us, now the other, that we are saying goodbye, so many times, forever.”
—
“An archaeology between them.”
—
“You were scanning a whole set of small habits.
And it occurred, oh, that this was also yours, was, by the enlargement of its details, a pace that you could include, and were slowing down for. You would like the attitude to remain clear, like a branch reaching out into the sky, yet, try as we will, there is a further stance whose immediacy and freshness dazzles us, and is soon to beget the change for which we, unknowingly, have become separate examples, farther from the old characteristics of air in a window, where a sudden and apologetic mood takes over the poplars, like a windy fall day.
Admittedly, there are seizures of envy, even an ugliness sensitive to the promise of rain in a day made up of small advances and accumulations in the structure of clouds. And you find now a reluctance, even a lack of belief to hold up to the light, which fits in with your memory of a room's color.”
How some things seem to hide under the bed. The way we seem to be under the table. How the flowers fall, and the rug gets horny. Even if there is a difference, there always is. My leg, your tablecloth, etc.”
—
“You stop wondering.
The places tell you that,
where, and they remain
the traced lines, the funnel,
which came seriously, even
unsuspected, and looked odd.
Somewhere between actually
refusing to abet the raw
weather, it is easy to be
certain, it is morning, and
nothing shows behind it,
not so clearly cold, really.
They are still where you
left them, quiet and still.
The fact is they are meant
to be. They could be anything.
The stabs at recognition seem
sensible and electric almost.”
—
“Sunday. It is finally this that we have become. A reformulation on the other side of the looking-glass: us again! Your ‘mistake.’ It is out of that world that keeps chang. ing to contain now the two of us, now one of us, now the other, that we are saying goodbye, so many times, forever.”
—
“An archaeology between them.”
—
“You were scanning a whole set of small habits.
And it occurred, oh, that this was also yours, was, by the enlargement of its details, a pace that you could include, and were slowing down for. You would like the attitude to remain clear, like a branch reaching out into the sky, yet, try as we will, there is a further stance whose immediacy and freshness dazzles us, and is soon to beget the change for which we, unknowingly, have become separate examples, farther from the old characteristics of air in a window, where a sudden and apologetic mood takes over the poplars, like a windy fall day.
Admittedly, there are seizures of envy, even an ugliness sensitive to the promise of rain in a day made up of small advances and accumulations in the structure of clouds. And you find now a reluctance, even a lack of belief to hold up to the light, which fits in with your memory of a room's color.”
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