It seems now, in
everything
still to follow,
nothing at all
will rigidly follow.
there is so much light
we can't see,
but none
that won't use us,
none
that we might not
someday be—
and that
where words would never
dare to go,
feeling
still remains.
But nothing will change
the feeling of dismay
that the weather today
would dare be
so fair
or shame
that food still tastes
pretty good.
We think: if we could
hurl ourselves hard
into that wall of all experience
and burst, in an instant, into
frenzies of pigeons...
but no. Only you
could do that
and get away with it.