A bush here, a bush there - a pure
fill of interstices. That is how
the hard and empty push of departure
takes its stand against persistence. Now
is the time to keep on leaving. The sand
escapes over the dunes, and the distance
is unsightable. If I could remand
the scene into a simple instance,
I'd corrupt the sweet blankness
into a result. But all that would
be gotten is something next. Such excess
poorly trades on boundaries for the good.
I seek the most that I can get from the least
and hold things closely, loose, unreleased.
*
~William Frawley
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