They Asked of Her

And they asked of her, said unto her: Why do you write these words, this ink on an invisible whiteness, these corruptible scratching’s as mutable as sand and water? Surely poetry is but a reverie, an untried pretention of truth. By who’s authority do you speak? She answered them saying: Who called me poet? I am that nothing from which all manner of nothings come from. The white page comes after me; words come after me, not from me. What you see as words and poetry I see as the Holy Ghost speaking through a skull.