[...]
I've heard the creak and whisper of the night's
improbable apparatus, lacewings and frost
and starlight on the rooftops like a veil
but nothing has ever spoken, nothing has come
from the elsewhere I measure out in songs and dreams,
although I glimpse, in spite of what I know,
the guessed-at world where nothing has been said
but everything is on the point of speaking:
you in your chair, looking up from a half-read book
as the angel who cannot exist is replaced by the given,
the sullen gift of everyday events:
the promise of rain, a footfall, the dread of belonging.
John Burnside
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