Beyond the Nettles,

there is a pond where the water lillies grow and children weep for their youth, the silent forces that make the moth to pebbled thought entombed in the shifting light of its bed, and Nowhere is a feeling. Remember the morning of the bird, the obscured pane, where nature died at once, and slowly even kisses were sharp and revealed some secret like a moth-wing in a book. It is here you recall the thing everyone knows, or pretends to know.