Beckett

If I could meet him I would.
–Gus Blaisdell (sometime in the ’80s)

The master’s servant,
he was his student.
I learned more from
Anna Livia Plurabelle
in French, said Sam.
Joyce was not his book.

One is not the other,
no need to compare,
singularity is never
Comment C’est.
Then how is it?
Not much now.

Hang one hand
off the arm,
let it dangle
along
gravity’s
postwar flow.

Finnegan knew tongues.
Vladimir and Estragon
knew Lucky
at the end of his rope.
Hamm and Nell and Nagg
family to the end.

The stage grows
small.
The books dwindle
wordwise.
I would start over:
move, stop, think, move still.

(8 April 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander