Let Be Be Finale of Seem

If you want to take a grasp, do it in such a way
That the language precedes the rationale,
Stems from it, forms and informs it.

If only everything grew in our mind: rage,
That our plans don't allow the shapes of things,
That language itself shatters,

As if there were some ultra-visible force
Pushing away everything we can't see,
Until only the impingements of voices and color,
And the bodies of accidents were left. Yes,

We want everything to be intentional,
And every intention our intention;
We want the world to hang from the string
Of a necessary tension. Small men,

Who don't know the order of things, posit God,
Last arbiter of reason. Small men,
Who know nothing, are stringing themselves
Into frustrated little bits, glaring everywhere,
Trying to get their say. Love is supposed to help this.

But how seductive, to render everything
Into the hurricanes of our unquenched being:
Things are riled up on the inside, and it is curious
If the sun never gets in the way.