It's passing strange... - although why I think it strange, I can not penetrate - - maybe all my "normal" is but surface shadow, dim reflection - - perhaps what I call "strange" is ocean deep - It's passing strange - and ocean deep - that vast conceits... ...can only be expressed in drops of salted water. Hot, large and urgent or slow, gentle caress. Falling and bursting on hard ground or flung in myriad spray from blinking lashes or rivulets upon the face. If I say words out loud, say "This creation astounds", my barren sounds congeal into flat, dull, tasteless mass (tofu words) But if I weep the words, the cataracts of worlds pour forth in delirium of rapturous delight If I say "This creation is broken", the dull monotone tugs at mired feet, sinking in ennui (damp words) But if I weep the words, my running heart is torn from heaving breast and I strain in passioned yearning for the resolution of ages If I say "The Lord is risen", not much rises above my bleating (spent words) But if I weep the words, a fresh cosmos burst forth and the founding stars laugh and dance If I say "My friend is dead", I convey, in open prose, a matter of fact about molecules at rest (inert words) But, if I weep the words, each glittering tear cradles within its liquid shell the world of worlds the tale of tales Teaming abundance. Desolate despair. Highest praise. And today I weep.