Then what’s left is not enough to live on.
There are fires breaking out in the valleys beneath
The house, locusts in the fields. For days,
There is longing like nothing else; for
Weeks, prohibitions against change of any kind.
So you remain out of order, falling from the
Heights of sleep over and over again. And
What is the source of this haunting other than
Then the melancholy of a world without reason?
I shouldn’t differentiate between symbols
And the scaffoldings of thought. It all folds back:
A self-centered experience is an anthracite mine:
A pit dug into the terror of insight.