The impossible touches us
If all our senses are perturbations
Which form our thoroughgoing intercourse
With the space of stars.
It is either thought or it appears.
The impossible absolutely is only thought
But then it is vague and not even thought.
Perhaps. Then every impossibility appears,
Touching the senses like a sentence
That withholds its meaning,
Whose fabulous provenance
Is visible and so can be conceived; it is felt
But never we feel, like so many objects that jut
For the fingers but are not the self
Of skin on skin -- of its skin on its skin.
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