Sondheim's hut

Heidegger’s Hut

poised among the fourfold, the lure of new man, new development, and yet… closer to fourfold, among uncounted elements, unaccounted-for. For often I have approached this live or in dream to little avail; I would wait for clearing weather, for the world to happen, for technology to disappear at the base. Heidegger remains there above his troubled politics, of which there is no counting-four; we are close to hearth, we are embers among the dying worlds. Soon the snows will melt, glaciers disappear; the hut stays on a lure, overlooking resettled life, spaces a thousand kilometers long, an empyrean high. I cannot imagine a world such as this, life in hut corner, close to warmth, old wooden bench and bed, columnar spirit emerging to heavens’ other worlds. We live in imaginary solace, his hut our own, released to the elements and beyond, transformed. There is no journey in the journey, no dream in the dream. One has life only for so much sorrow. Glow remains the last of our eyes. Hearth warms, beyond.