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.