NEL MEZZO

And so I approach the quiet centre,
Rest from the busyness of life—
Its patterns, activity and facts, which,
Then and now, seem to me not
A life, rather a kind of agitation
Where I forget this, and forget that,
And will in time remember a host
Of lapidary truths that never were.

Quietness says that everything
Pretends a permanence it does not enjoy,
That it flaunts this scurrying importance,
When what obtains, what is true,
Is other than the fleeting appearances,
The charade never guessed correctly.