The visible carries all the invisible on its back

Each word, as someone once wrote, contains the universe.
The visible carries all the invisible on its back.
Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses,
                                                                    what touches me
As though I didn’t exist?
What is it that keeps on moving,
                                          a tiny pillar of smoke
Erect on its hind legs,
                               loose in the hollow grasses?
A word I don’t know yet, a little word, containing infinity,
Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.
Under the tongue is the utterance.
Under the utterance is the fire, and then the only end of fire.


A Short History of the Shadow, Charles Wright