Metaphysics? What metaphysics do these trees have?
That of being green and having crowns and branches And that of giving fruit at their hours, – which is not what makes us think – us, who don't know to be aware of them.
But what better metaphysics than theirs, Which is not knowing why they live And not knowing they don't know?
In a description hollowed out of hollow-bright, The artificer of subjects still half night. It matters, because everything we say Of the past is description without place, a cast Of the imagination, made in sounds; And because what we say of the future must portend, Be alive with its own seemings, seeming to be Like rubies reddened by rubies reddening.
