“Take Cover,” by Angie Estes and couvre feu, cover the fire because when the bell sounds, it means curfew, it is mellow-drama, facsimile of a tryst, trusted meeting place, waiting like a shelter or decoy, duck blind with the perfect vision of the Venetian blind: a number of thin horizontal slats that may be raised or lowered with one cord, all set at a desired angle. Love too we’re told is blind, but desire, as Aristotle knew, is all angle, and so he gave us the math to keep track of our loves: Number, he said, has two senses: what is counted or countable, and that by which we count. Remember to cover the rosemary in winter, uncover the basil before the sun comes up, and when you take cover, cover your head with your hands and forearms, as we learned in school, once you have crouched under your desk. In January, beneath the roof of the house, a sparrow curves in the scroll of a corbel, and soon at Carnevale a mask will be held at half-mast like the lid of a casket before it lies under the grass. How much ground have you covered today? You always take all the covers, it’s true. But do not take cover under a tree during a storm—your body will lift its wick to light, and you will gleam like Venus just before dawn: a satellite in the atelier where true and tree are related, unable to choose between heaven and earth, to make seems come true.
Posted on: Thu, 04 Jul 2013 06:55:02 +0000
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