No wonder you go stooped, shouldering a dead
weight as though a statue cast in lead
straddled your life. And yet the load consists
of matter which does not exist.
Cunning artificer, your artifact,
hollow as it is heavy, rides your back
in public daylight, in solipsist sleep,
granting no breather, no reprieve to drop
the secret bending you to its own shape.
-
The lie
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 7, on page 40
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