Echoes Mean to Explore

Some moments it seems

All stories have grown

Tiresome. They echo

Each other in mind,

Whether the echoes

Rumble from canyons,

Cellars, hearths, bookstores,

The glories of screens—

Too tiresome and faint.

You put the book down.

You’ve circled around

The Edda and myths

Gathered by the names

Of peoples, nations,

Ancient traditions,

Then mythology

Itself, which somehow

Sent you to more walls

Of anthologies,

From anthologies

To the collections

Of movements, life works

Of so and so—all

Leading you back here

To a favorite,

The Aleph of Borges,

And the character

You consider your

Secret alias,

Borges’ nemesis,

Fictional Carlos

Argentino, loon

Of exegesis

Of his own bad poem,

The best he could make

Of the actual

Aleph! Here you pause

To reread once more

The ecstatic prose

Paragraph of poem,

Epic catalogue,

Spider of the mind,

That is Borges’ own

Effort echoing

Through all things at once,

But to your surprise,

And for the first time,

You find it tiresome.

Maybe you’re ready

To move on from mind,

Beyond forgetting,

Back from the Aleph,

Back from nothing much,

To thrilling nothing.

If you can let go

Not just the knowing,

But the emotions

That tie you to tales,

Maybe you’ll slip through

The true secret door.