Sunday, April 3, 2022


Poetry has yet to touch
Even these rich-dappled hills;
What need for myths
When the real is so near,
That is to say,
Impossible to see?

Nothing rises from its existence 
To say what it is,
It is only the measuring and comparing
That gives us anything ...

The machinery without its ticking,
A long hum of silence
So that it is known
While staying secret.