Ethics of the devotionalist
Bliss in the eyes. Unrepentant bliss in the upturned
eyes of aspen, looking and looking, unexpectant,
seeing nothing because those scarred over eyes cannot
close. Aspen is a forest pardoned by the god
of sleep, forgiven and ultimately freed from his tax.
In this way, aspen is also unburdened of that love
for time, the unconditioned mutual love
that afflicts us other, still partial, creatures,
from warbler to frigate bird, from the common hare
to the monarch butterfly, all those who witness in the night
stress and mitigated joy pull the aging eyelids
closed in the face of the other. Gone unnoticed,
the aspen has been released from both the life of sleep
and, as a corollary, the shadowed life of sex.
So the bliss in the eyes. Facing only the timeless mirror
of the same, aspen is given no refuge in blame
nor apology, nor has it felt the effulgence of obsession
and the austere responsibility of promise. In perfect equipoise
it hasn’t forgotten so much as become indifferent towards
its pact with the god, which the rest of us still regard
as sacrosanct. The forest of open eyes, in turn,
appears as a neutral measure for the ethics of the devotionalists.
We who, waiting for the miracle, rise early in anticipation
and pass the hours dreading the evening which never,
and cannot, reward us. We who celebrate the face but mourn
the regrettable shaking of the head. Appearing as the long,
reputable halls in which our shapeless dyad might be tried,
might be finally stung with clarity by the demands of the plural
third person, the aspen under the guise of many
is taking the form of a jury. But in truth
sleeplessness has long since blunted any capacity
for discerning guilt or honesty, and so the bliss
of those innumerable eyes. Meanwhile, the black-billed
frigate bird is menacing the warblers, pilfering their nests,
screaming and wreaking havoc. I’ve been above the treeline
for some time now, so I can’t report on the state of the hare.