The Fourth Existential, or Variety

I am
Thoughtless, sans
Prolepsis, only
Scoping out the concept
Of a concept,
Skeptical. I want

The moon to be a soggy ocean,
The sun to be a maritime whir, dawn,
A flash, and autumn some elaborate
System of reciprocities, whereby
The one comes through the other to the one,
Itself;

-- In other words, -- I want to know words
In all their intensity, but I admit
Theirs might be a vibrance
Insubstantial, lacking all
Solidity, mist-like.

If thought is like a labyrinth of fog,
Then there's a long way to go before the journey rides
-- Then dirt is rolling on its way up-hill,
-- Then the sorry music collides. This music isn't
Destiny beyond all capacity for speech or sound,
This music is a fleeting tongue-stop
Of the most intimate variety, it is itself the veracity,
Changed,
Of the fleet and fleeing seasons.