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.
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