Experience teaches, but its lessons 
may be useless. I could have done without
a few whose only by-product is grief,

Reclaimed from brushwood,
from coarse rank grass interspersed
with stagnant bog water,

Sad storm of objects becoming things,
the objective correlative, tired of me
as I am of it. I embody everything it hates

And now the objects return. Chief interests
of their divine secular lives no longer
idle. Thought anticipates them, but they aren’t

It rises from the North Atlantic’s stacks
as radio silence, a generalized lack
of discursive tone or narrative movement distinguished