Fog’s white tongue says nothing licking mountain field lake
so they’re struck dumb and can say nothing in their dialects
of light though last night’s heavens were alive with stars all
chanting their canticle of fire and look how water in this
glass jug will not stop moving as if its agitation were some
secret worry the solid earth under our own uneasy feet feels
at each meniscus-shiver as surface ruptures a little and ordinary
objects of the world stutter as if the stricken face of earth itself
its indifference for a moment broken could not stop sobbing.
