And now...

And now

And now to write without the outside,
To write without the spur of the world,
And to rely upon something else
Hidden somewhere deep beneath these hands.
No light, no dark, no chasm of night,
No blood-fat fleas, no green leaves of grass,
No Grecian urn, no, no burning flame.
Only the still, the sea of silence
In which to wait and lie anchorless,
In which to remember and forget
How things are formed and destroyed.