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