On First Looking into “Windows”
So many doors opening on other doors,
so many means between us and no-end,
contacts contacting contacts through no-friend.
Buttons burgeon; and is there one that restores
the screen that is no screen, where what is ours
is with us, and our substance is unspent
or returns to us, and returning tissues the rent
struck in us by the outlet of our powers?
As blood leaps to the wound, mind has gone forth
into making that can make nothing dear
to itself; that can rear only drear
mirrorings of its might, cast to be cast
off, set down only to be surpassed.
Soul’s bulb, abandoned, shrinks; what thing gets growth?