Everything is living
But all we would know of that
Is the residue, information
That resides like an echo.
The green of the grass
Is one thought
Being spoken,
And the tilt of the copter rotor
At grey sunset quite another.
Everything is speaking.
It's best that we hear it as our own thought
-- As the fragmentary beginning
Of something other --
For it might bring us closer
To the thinker of the thought --
Oh what is its name? -- us.
