They say that deep in the interstices

where dream and waking dream and what, between the two, I’ve 
called a life, each crossing the other, 
seem a nest of swords, flashless, as from long neglect, 

          there’s a meadow’s-worth left, still, of the aftergrass 
that grows in sweeter once the first hay-crop’s been cut down, just 
believe in it hard enough, 

everything’s findable, even now, they say (parallel, ascending), but 
                                         that’s not true; not true.