Saint-to-be Christopher, my putative namesake, was an 18-foot tall Canaanite who carried, among other travelers, the child Christ across a flood-swollen river. His reward for a lifetime of service to besieged Christians was execution– after many tries– by decapitation, punishment for refusing to kneel and sacrifice before the pagan gods.
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To be enchanted is literally to come upon singing or to– somehow metaphorically and in reality simultaneously– come to song.
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Pound wrote of Whitman:
We have one sap and one root–
Let there be commerce between us.
And so in our shared language run common sticky threads, in some hands, wicks, in others, fuses… and surrounding all the confused smoke of inattention.
