In any universal force or unifying vision An emptiness of intent inhabits, a blank of indecision. To try and grasp the whole of Man must blur individuation And see all wide variation One, innocent of division. Who can blame them for their blankness, or feel themselves assured That they have flossed Reality from the asterisked Obscure? Wherever truth lies it lies becalmed, Unmoved in its sutures by winter storms or squalls. We come into our knowing neither too early nor too late But just in a moment's glowing and take what we may take. If you don't, as I don't, know just what a thing is Sit silent, or politely ask the thing itself its business.