The physical world can not be known in the way poetry aspires to know it, intimately, ecstatically, in a way that heals the ache of one’s separation from the world, it seems to me, outside of the sundering of knowledge which contemplation is. And contemplation’s knowing is not a knowing at all, offers nothing clear and distinct, nothing sure, universal. The contemplative does not retreat from the world with a knowledge enriched with names for things, a mental map of efficient causalities. Yet in contemplation one loves the world and wants to be in the world in love without skewing it […] Language asserts and cancels itself, names the world then erases the name, and in this restlessness one glimpses the aptness of confusion before the ungraspable diversity of here. Silence.
— Tim Lilburn, Living in the World as If it Were a Home