Surrounded by a popping,
Hissing mess of grasshoppers,
I think of Stevens' "one thing
Remaining," "no greater than
A cricket's horn," and wonder
Once more, why is this world this,
And why can we imagine
It might be any other,
When we can't imagine what
That other could be, whether
Real or no, conjectural
Or final. This world depends
On nothing I can affirm
Yet seethes, as it is, as is.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.