This is what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us. No other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks. No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather. No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but what we make. That,
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The World Seems…
The world seems so palpable And dense: people and things And the landscapes They inhabit or move through. Words, on the other hand, Are so abstract—they’re Made of empty air Or black scratches on a page That urge us to utter Certain sounds. And us: Poised in the middle, aware Of the objects out there Waiting patiently to be named, As if the right words Could save them. And don’t They deserve it? So much hidden inside each one, Such a longing To become the beloved. And inside us: the sounds That could extend that blessing— How they crowd our mouths, How they press up against Our lips, which are such A narrow exit for a joy so desperate.