19 December 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 4

Arboreal

by TIMOTHY BRADFORD

The trees planted in

the median

follow me. They

could be a kind of peppertree

given the narrow,

delicate leaves, like

children's fingers, the milky-white

sap, and berries

with a spicy, resinous smell.

I try not to look at them,

but there they are,

flaming red and asking

for my attention. The mind's

luminosity

adheres to such things

and makes the world leap

into being.

Without the world, consciousness

shines in the dark cave of

your skull

and can implode or enlighten

depending upon your ease

with such light.

But the alternative—perception,

parsing things up, then labels,

and finally, the schematic

diagrams of the brain—

so often seems an ego trick

to make the little you

feel essential, or

like a new car is what you need.

Or an education.

A friend is reading Ricoeur in translation.

(Ricoeur's words denser than daylight

is long, so he could

still be reading, though I suspect

you understand "is reading"

as "read."

Don't you know we grow old

through such narrative strategies?

Couldn't it all

be present progressive?)

I'm dubious about anything

in translation,

especially French

literary theory, and wonder

about the hours

he spends grinding his mind,

delicate blossom, through such

machinations.

Such precious time could be

better spent in the parking lot

contemplating

the essential red

of the trees,

manifest without

translation.