Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
'a sort of springtime / toward which their minds aspired / but which he saw, / within himself—ice bound'
'the stream / that has no language'
'the same thing of no importance'
Readings gather, draw together.
I could use one of Celan's tree-high thoughts.
Sam and Diane can't help laughing at each other's jokes.
'A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it.'