Only silence perfects silence.

If the greatest god is the stillness all the motions add up to, then we must ineluctably be included.

The white sun like a moth on a string circles the southpole.

Even if you walk exactly the same route each time - as with a sonnet - the events along the route cannot be imagined to be the same from day to day, as the poet's health, sight, his anticipations, moods, fears, thoughts cannot be the same.

What destruction have I been blessed by?

Where but in the very asshole of comedown is redemption: as where but brought low, where but in the grief of failure, loss, error do we discern the savage afflictions that turn us around: where but in the arrangements love crawls us through

I take the walk to be the externalization of an interior seeking so that the analogy is first of all between the external and the internal.