Nothing is really something.
It is a baffling abstraction,
but never merely so.
No mere but scants eternity,
the skin’s fine grainings,
hand to hand, breast to breast,
lips on eyelids. Anything
is more than aught can hold
and not let go. Even dry words,
paging themselves in pity
for being separate from the rest,
feel the will of attachment,
as ivy clinging grows on stone,
or water falling fulfills
the absolute, or anything
makes else of something
out of nothing in particular
for the rising up, and the going on,
for the moving out beyond
what thinks to measure
and dares, without a clue,
to call it mere.
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