Invocation

Now and here in this anonymous time a man walks along the street, going to the pharmacy, because there is a pain in his chest, he is coming up to it now just around the corner, wrapped so that his face is nearly invisible in the bitter cold, thick gloves on his hands, hunched, hunched because of his anonymous age, when something turns in his head, the knitting there goes taut or loose, and he topples, a small bundle going over in the street, making no sound or crying out only once, briefly, like he is sinking, and lies there not moving, and strangers startled like timid animals with soft faces come around and say hey, hey, are you okay, even though the man has no time to say what he has to say and loses consciousness before he makes the necessary gestures, and so the strangers call an ambulance which comes eventually like a power with its anonymous noise and anonymous intent, light and hustle a skein or a variation upon essential tragedy, and a card is found in the man’s pocket with a number on it and a woman is called, a message carrying nothing with which to grief it, but not after it is determined that the man is dead, dead and cooling when the woman comes running and takes hands of the body in her own and sits down there in the anonymous street and does not cry but makes a face of true and animate pain, as she takes the gloved hands of the body in her own naked ones where anonymous veins run grey and purple and pulse, and refuses to move, and says that she will wait, she will wait for their son to arrive, I will be fine, and so she sits there as hours pass and the strangers who see that her hands are read come up to her with nothing to say and give her a coat and gloves, anonymous articles to keep her warm, because she will take nothing from the body whose face no-one can see, and the strangers give her also sheets of cardboard to lay under her and separate her from the freezing concrete as she sits there looking out at the tides moving, the lights of streets and buildings and vehicles of a terrible and changed world, a blood of anonymous realisation blooming inside her, but her only with the skin of her pained face to brunt it, the people from the ambulance waiting in their bright colours that sing and sing, talking to each other in soft voices, shaking their heads, gone now to get some food in this harsh cold, gone after having no way to spend their compassion, and because it is now night strangers come and with blind anonymous kindnesses tell her to go home, go home or you will get sick, but she tells them that it is all right, her son is on the way, and curls her anonymous head about the anonymous body, and then after time and snow and a great stillness the son does come in a car and comes out running, himself a man with children young enough to be anonymous, objects of starry intent and no pause who will bound through halls of life, chapters entire, expanding without warrant, without second thought, will and leap and run and fall, will grow up barter their souls to take fixed places as the world flickers and shuttles, will do all this without knowing this man who tottered in the street on the way to the pharmacy where he was familiar with the pharmacist, whose dead hands were held for a long time after death came, became irreversible, and left, and the son now takes the woman who looks up at the man suddenly, she sees the man come down toward her against anonymous light, and takes him in her arms and starts to make a sound, a thing untenanted that goes out and up against the anonymous snow, a vital claim sent out from an anonymous mouth against an anonymous blackness, a thing that asks to be named.