We who are dead
Depend on the imagination.
Facts are useless, to us.
They are always the facts of life.
We believe all statements
To be equally true: that the sky
And its clouds are carved from stone,
That all words curve back
Into their roots,
That time is a tissue we unwrap
To find a ring, a scarf,
A miraculous kiss.
Always we revolve
A single endless thought
That is always new, that endures
Forever, that recurs
And recurs and is always new.
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