Keenly as I read detective fiction
I’ve never cared who done it.
I read it for the ambiances:
David Small reasoning rabbinically,
Jim Chee playing tapes in his tribal
patrol car to learn the Blessing Way,
or the tweed antiquaries of London,
for from the midriff down,
discoursing with lanthorn and laudanum.
I read it, then, for the stretches
of presence. And to watch analysis
and see how far author and sleuth
can transcend that, submitting
to the denied whole mind, and admit it,
since the culprit’s always the same:
the poetry. Someone’s poem did it.
from “Crankshaft” by Les Murray
Translations from the Natural World, Carcanet 1993