What pleases us is the adaptation
of the object’s form to our faculties
this body that hoped to flower and become
a flute in the frost, violet in a crucible
compelled to feel the distances
when a cold rain falls outside the hut
as if drawing down the virtues of the upper world
by tweaking the lower ones
sunburnt shales and grassless crags
not as we live in everyday banality
but born into an enchanted world
reading dense and mistaken texts
charged by deep country silence
except for odd rustlings in the laurel-heart
fantasms that cannot bear the revelation of speech
as a lower limit / mist of some sort
garb to be abandoned in law or end
the plenitude of form which kills form
making appearance dissolve itself
while still remaining appearance
dazed as they move toward the slaughter house
for there never was a void to be filled
or a view to the depths of the earth
every thing lucid to every other.