There is a place to which I often go,
Not by planning to, but by a
Away from all existence, to a
Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled.
Here, the mills of God are never slow.
The landscape in its geological
Dissolves to show its quintessential slime.
A million stars are blotted out.
I
Of each historic passion as a
That happened to the sad eye of Time.
But residues of meaning still remain,
As darkest myths meander through the
Towards a final formula of light.
I, too, reject this clarity of sight.
What cannot be explained, do not explain.
The mundane language of the senses
Its own interpretations.
Common
Become, by virtue of their commonness,
An argument against their
That dies of cold to find the truth it brings.
