If half of me is skewered
by grey crested birds
in the middle of the vines of my promise
and the very fact that I'm a poet
suffers my eyes
to be filled with vermilion tears
how much greater danger
from occasion and pain is my vitality
yielding like a tree on fire!--
for every day is another view
of the tentative past
grown secure in its foundry of shimmering
that's not even historical;it's just me.
And the other half
of me where I master the root
of my every idiosyncrasy
and fit my ribs like a glove
is that me who accepts betrayal
in the abstract as if it were insight?
and draws its knuckles
across the much-lined eyes
in the most knowing manner of our time?
The wind that smiles through the wires
isn't vague enough for an assertion
of a personal nature it's not for me
I'm not dead.
Nothing remains let alone "to be said "
except that when I fall backwards
I am trying something new and shall succeed as in the past.
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