“Blew. Blue bloom is on the.”

– Ulysses, 11:6

I 

Imagine

Him 

At his desk

In his Yale office 

A bookcase behind him 

His almosting weeping eyes 

Peering into the camera lens 

Eyes 

Moved as they move 

Over still words 

Guided by a blotchy, bloated finger 

The endpoint of a line beginning as softness on his tongue 

This softness speaks in my ear 

Assures me of the Value of passed things 

I resist this assurance 

Bloom said of Melville and Walt Whitman 

Two Manhattan men 

“They might have passed each other in the street” 

To me his mind seems a Borgesian Babel 

A literary Orbis Tertius 

Gardens of forking paths 

Kabbalistic 

Trees of knowledge 

The fruits might have rotted by now 

The white leviathan dies 

After 

The last page has been read 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iovdjZi4xTI&t=622s

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