xxxxiv
guidance garbled
oh is its own
sounding itself
arrival and return
scoff is the fanfare of failure
is the sound
of an allergy to possibility
afraid itself of itself
that the materials of the world
are only few and being few
take as they give away
and reduce our hearts to a romance
made the same as absurdity
the moon sheds its tears
and wets the souls of all their worldly weights
watches a falling leaf
flitting in its flying air
floating in a nothing
of what despite how
all the secrets of the world
are in our eyes
just beyond us
scoff because right now
it’s not enough for us
and it’s more than we can bear
standing with its bearing
speaks a sillhouette
as moving shadows
move us
and reflections
move as we do
the rest is in between
like a mystery presiding
you don’t know what it is
until you do
then it’s it you are
being done
undone
without conviction to -
the illusion
what -
and are
all?
without conviction to -
the illusion
what -
and are
all
fill us up
to take it
to take it earnest
is a proof it hasn’t mistreated you
and the gateway to disillusion
or disgrace
nevermind
mind it to the never
love is all
you need but
it isn’t enough
for your love
for the size
of your life
with your love
you go on
trying despite
despite trying
your life
is still just
keeping and searching
for and
for itself
and its end
made of
it
is it
is it
oh
oh
oh
is the sound of the earth
oh
is the generosity of listening
and the gift of hearing oneself the one
to whom we mustn’t speak
for fear we’ll find a listener
what
oh
is the sound in the quiet
between the noise
noising its weight on our body
we’ve forgotten until
until we know it in its lifting
oh is the arrival
of our self
to our knowing
at the balance
we call wisdom
it isn’t
but the holding
cats cradle
walking wires
knotted noose
shape suggested
mystic maze
now up is down and both are neither
oh is the sound of the earth
For the senses are weak and erring, nor can instruments be of great use in extending their sphere or acuteness; all the better interpretations of nature are worked out by instances, and fit and apt experiments, where the senses only judge of the experiment, the experiment of nature and the thing itself.
Francis Bacon