The next day I went out at dawn and wrote:

"The vast inference I had drawn over all of our heads
      is gone.
"It was but another silky voice,
      plausible, an answer
"To a question that seemed to burst from every tension, juxtaposition
      of symbol with action, every discontent."

The air was clear, full of flying insects, radio, paradox, intent, song.

"One's feeling that he is the keeper of any keys at all
      creates him.
"Talk, or talk of talking; dream the short things tall. Imagine
      concluding your poem most rife with personal meaning
"With no metaphor, no simile,
"No 'going on' within the traditions and precepts of this madness
      —its tacit acceptance—
"At all."