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