The solar spyglass fires through the forest, I turn round
the Blackbutts are glowing, their branches gilt lettering in a book
of great value, the pages left in the trunks safely anchored.
We need light, we need love, do we need poetry?
The street light is on, but shouldn’t be on. We underestimate
how uncanny the world is, use language to supress this fact.
Words like truth and justice fire the imagination, but
like the word silence, they fail to secure any real existence.
