So fast, so fine It must be made of butterflies, Not they, themselves, but the thing they do: A sleight, a silence, susurration: Nothing, in a word, but something in that naughtSomething there that tries to say itself. (Ah, to sing, and so be hidden in the song; The song comes to our ears, but says it not.) And sometimes, I too, try to say it, (To try is to despair). Whatever I may do To catch it, name it, know it, I miss it As I christen it. It does not stop for me...
Sketch: Vol. 37
, Article 8.
Available at: http://lib.dr.iastate.edu/sketch/vol37/iss3/8