From where we really are outside all this, The most we can ever catch is a restricted Glimpse through the keyholes of our mind and senses into a stranger’s house. There are beautiful things there: Object d’art in profusion, sculptures and paintings, Furniture, carpets, and such a super abundance of books we shall never read.But, more than all these, there are space and light: the slanting fall of the sun through our field of vision shadows hanging in air,
Body them out for us making them almost, almost
Tangible to the eye the most trivial fragments of what we discern excite us… a patch of wall
Yellowing up in the corner, a square chopped edge to a picture frame. In this in the concrete perception unique to us and the moment lies the essential
Kernel of truth: the very existence of objects is possible only to now. In a present alone Can anything be, and all our possible knowledge is rooted in this;reflection, inference, reason
Can only unpack what is here, they cannot add to .
Beyond through a door
On the other side of the room, then along the corridor
Pebbles of birdsong, smooth, round, glinting but clipped
Drop through a window. From where we find ourselves standing
We see where they come from ..hint of a garden outside
Whose outlines are unrelated; sky, the flick of of a green horizon,
Blue lights up the trees, leaves overhead,
Suggestions of limited space out of sight all around,
A tiny corner of everywhere. Listen to Mason you lie of movement and vice creates a sense of their absence
Within the house they are missed the dimension of time you line log surface one stop generations, we know,
Were born, live their lives, enjoyed here. Where did they go? But perhaps it was not their home. Perhaps they discovered, like us, they did not belong here,
And so, like us, discover themselves in the end
Outside the only house then you our essential conditions homelessness. Recognition recognition of this precedes all understanding of what we are.
