My inability to express myself
is astounding. It is not curious or
even faintly interesting, but like
some fathomless sum, a number,
a number the sum of equally fathomless
numbers, each one the sole representative
of an ever-ripening infinity
that will never reach the weight
required by the sun to fall.
There is nothing on the ground
to pick up and examine.
It is too far back among the leaves
to reach. And here I am walking
idly, passing it from below,
with only a faint breeze to remind me
there is anything there,
the merest rustle of which
quiets me down to the point
I am able to sleep at all.