Here we drop anchor a minute to consider the classic example
—of the lighthouse keeper—knitted brow, blue wool cap, steady tread
up the winding stair. He is making way to the lantern room
—one last time, whistling a sea tune he has whistled for comfort
a thousand times before. He trims the wick of the whale-oil lamp
—and lights it by hand, an act that has always been
literal for him, whereas the rest of us can’t stop turning it
—into a metaphor—for hope, guidance, or whatever it might mean
when obscurity reverses, particularly if by the hand
—of one who acts remotely in the interests of a stranger
in the grip of certain peril, no matter that they lack any recognizable
—investment in each other. The nature of it isn’t personal any more than light
chooses the surfaces it lands on. And yet, when light refers
—back to the effort of a person in a tower anonymously
watching over everyone at sea, it’s hard not to detect in it a degree
—of abstract human warmth, a property our machinery can’t measure,
let alone produce—an aroma of care, the gift of a neighborhood
—bakery late at night, such that when our lighthouse keeper wakes
displaced by automation, we sense an incremental loss, first in what it is
—we think we might be made of, then in what we think we’re for.
Timothy Donnelly’s fourth book of poems, Chariot, will be published this spring by Wave Books. He teaches at Columbia University and lives in Brooklyn.
