The Vast

The moderate misanthrope
Sits by the stream, contented—

No, more strangely delighted
To not hear people’s voices.

It’s more palpable than sound,
More than the green in the frame,

More than the sweet privilege
Of a postcard-pretty scene—

The rocks shifting in the stream
Slightly, the breeze against skin,

The full feeling of the world,
Of the small being in it

With no other small beings
In sensory range in it,

At least no conspecifics.
It’s peculiarly immense.

Satiety—is that it?
No, the small being feels it,

Just feels some pleasure in it,
Not full, not hungry for it,

Without understanding it,
And, being human, desires

To explain or defend it
To other people—through us,

The small being’s smaller words,
Who parasitize, who help,

When we’re quiet about it.
It’s not the outside of walls

That does this to a hermit.
It’s the outside of voices,

Which is like going outside
After a hospital stay

Of weeks or months, the vivid
Sharpness of the air, the vast.