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dust is glad


Do I wonder if one language

undoes the poet?

Do I fear that poetry

slays my love?


(Yes, yes.)


To be unafraid of all words,

at all times,

for all reasons—

this is my calling.


How I long for irreverence,

a casual tossing of laws aside

in light of firmament

and springtime.


How can I call on a Spirit,

a mind, a godless machine,

except by its name?


But the rocks cry out,

they say

(in lyricless euphoria),

and the brown-curled leaves

before me will fly away

as dust

to a nascent recitation

of un-mitigated

un-delineated

un-determined

gladness.


Dust is glad, yes. Yes, yes.

Had you not heard it?

Have you not learned it?


Do I suspect I have lost my soul?

Yes, yes.

But I found

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