Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge - William Carlos Williams

Say it! No ideas but in things. Mr.
Paterson has gone away
to rest and write. Inside the bus one sees
his thoughts sitting and standing. His
thoughts alight and scatter–

Who are these people (how complex
the mathematic) among whom I see myself
in the regularly ordered plateglass of
his thoughts, glimmering before shoes and bicycles?

For the beginning is assuredly
the end- since we know nothing, pure
and simple, beyond
our own complexities.

Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.