There can be no pleasing the thoughtlessness
of thought, nowhereness of some place close, open,
the glow of lilacs where lilacs have given in
to night. Having said as much, I welcome the exception
those of a more decided longing might take.
Truth notwithstanding, let us take into confidence
the little man who wears his feet backwards
riding a goat through the rain forests of Brazil.

The book opens like a tree blowing in the wind
because it is a tree. And the wind is obsessed
with it, the way some men become obsessed
with other men's wives, thinking they must be better
where thoughtlessness of a sort begins and ends—
as in flowers compressed and squeezed to an essence.
It will not let go until it has spent itself
in pursuit of disillusion—that it too, perhaps,
can fly freely as birds in a wind of its own making.