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casparb's review
wallace's last contribution it's a minor collection of about 25 poems. he feels tired but he's sharp nonetheless he goes goes goes when he needs to and as with Auroras or Summer there's a theological weight too
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,
In an element that does not do for us,
So well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,
Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,
What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,
In an element that does not do for us,
So well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,
Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,
What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky
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