It is possible that he can be found some place
In a narrow closet, like a corpse in a detective story,
Standing, his eyes staring, and ready to fall on his face...
We are sure that from our real society
He has disappeared; he simply does not count,
Except in the pullulation of vital statistics -
Somebody's vote, perhaps, an anonymous taunt
Of Gallup poll, a dot in a government table -
But not felt, and certainly far from eminent -
In a shouting mob, somebody's sigh.
O, he who unrolled our culture from his scroll -
The prince's quote, the rostrum-sounding roar -
Who under one name made articulate
Heaven, and under another the seven-circled air,
Is, if he is at all, a number, an x,
a Mr Smith in a hotel register -
Incognito, lost, lacunal.
A. M. Klein
[In "Negociando com os mortos", Margaret Atwood]
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