After an age of longing had we missed
Our meeting and the dream, what were the good
Of weaving cloth of words? Were jewelled tales
An opiate meet to quell the malady
Of life unlived? In untried monotone
Were not the earth as vain, and dry, and old,
For thee, O Perfect Light, had I not sought thee?
“I want to hear the one thing speak that
cannot speak.
I want to know the things that can’t be known.
I want to speak only here in his closed book.
To hear those sorts of things said, that can
only be spoken in this sort of closed silence.
When the rest of the world is not awake to any
of this, and I also would rather be sleeping.
The wind making its marks on the other side of day.
And the crystal only keeping its lights, to itself.
And to me.”
Clark Coolidge | This Time We Are Both