A library employee has been explaining the theory of transmission lines to Millie, the librarian. Part 1 is here.
Every day was crumpled like a tissue,
starless rooms, vacant eyes,
until I cried out in a supermarket—
Check-out people, heed my warning:
concrete doesn’t show our true reflections,
it hides the motors that exhaust the immaterial,
the proton-powered furnaces of darkness,
and don’t trust geese.
I left of my own accord,
and decided I would take
a train to Sheridarp.
Millie seemed puzzled.
What happened to the transmission lines?
Didn’t you read the heading?
At the station, others waited—
one who’d wrung out every sentence,
every sigh, twisting it until
all silence was expelled,
one waiting for departures and arrivals,
for tears and an embrace,
one who’d come from x,
an algebraic beginning
in a hidden variable.
But no train stopped or even slowed,
no brakes squealed, no bursts of steam,
every engine oscillating, reciprocating air.
Millie yawned suspensefully.
And where, exactly, is Sheridarp?
Neither East nor West nor up nor down,
along no space- or time-like axis,
not within or without
any limitation, and there,
no dreams, no thoughts exist.
She handed me a book:
“The Unknowable: what we’ve learned so far.”
Do we know nothing about the ineffable, or do we know it’s ineffable?