I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
I
I cannot praise beauty
only the mysterious
I summon the elements
of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
– my own
who else stands here
– a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
the flesh of
this Being.
lovely, a damn fine work. thanx
Good to be visited by a nameless need.