To write of the last Sunday night of the twentieth century
I have begun 14 years early.
These Sunday nights near the end
are not dominated by radios and televisions
but by a fresh new dream of and ancient wish.
Primordial rhythm still rattles in the forest
and the anxiety of affluence is still the white man's curse.
But the loss of time is inconceivable
and the destruction of the imagination is unimaginable.
We're all here on the proverbial last
Sunday night of the twentieth century
gathered, as it were, around a crystal ball,
believing, as it were, in no particular
mythology but in mythology itself
and waiting for the second coming...as it were.
--1986
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