As if nothing but the real-infinite were
    That beyond our comprehension was
    the white ocean storm, I read, formulated somewhat
    differently, in a passage of Kant  About this
    I have always known  Also about the dark
    point in the storm   About the great and the small
    I have been at the extremes, not just in a dream   The one
    that burst what little reality I owned
    That was a long time ago   What do I have now?
    The social surrounds us, like an alien
    reality; the resultant of a large number of vectors
    is always alien; a trivial fact, so difficult
    to understand  This looking inward also becomes limited
    But nothing is unaltered   We are expert at change    
    As if we always had the brain of a child, even unto death

    I hear the childish music  I hear my own voice’s
    song; its vocalics, its rasping, explosions

    In this counterpoint   What do I make of the social
    I touch the lives of those closest to me   Song touches
    everyone, even in foreign languages  We are differentiated
    We shall not be integrals, not even in the alien eye of God
    Society moves chaotically, toward simpler and simpler controls
    where local variations cancel one another out  It is
    unstable; that is where our freedom lies; that which is beyond
    all controls   Like the oceanic storm, white   Or black  Everything
    changes place with every other thing   I feel your soft lips, smell your
    scent, in an unparalleled familiarity  You are not alien, or
    in any case least strange of all   We argue with each other
    We make love with each other, softly   We love each other  The curtain
    billows through the window, a stronger gust of wind opens a slit between them
    The leaves strike one another, the panicles of the grasses move  A flower fly
    stands still in the air  A distant bird is audible again  Which
    bird?  Impossible to hear! It is part of life alien to us
    At twilight the song thrush sang   Softly, softly  In fragments of
    the rhythms of Mozart, what resembles them   Now several birds   A warbler? 

    The small gray bird down by the bridge?  Among the shimmering blue dragonflies. . .
    Yesterday I played the flute for the dead woman  Down toward the streaming