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,

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

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