It is especially difficult because there is nothing to say:
Not that the moon stopped liquor of blood on the sun-
Tied lakes that were bays, and baying, shapes
Of some bereaved and impregnable
Bitch above barren plains;
Not because the wonders of our mediacracy
Grip the air in streamlined talons faster than ruined
Towers collapse; not even because the sky on the march
Shreds the fortified ants, who scraped the aether,
Black clouds spilling like ink on the sand;

Rather because saying is a honey quite apart
From the sweets of knowledge; the oaks that drip nectar
Appear, the lions will rest while the lambs swim on saccharin
Seas died a rare and brilliant blue, rarified 'til it seems
The skies drip in the humid earth's
Concourse, harmony; because the pain of dissolution
Cycles into the potion, unspeakable, and the rocks won't speak;
Because this is the same dull globe of twilight,
Macerated forest of stars; this is the dream
Of the word beyond speech.