Poems are daemons to exorcized—
things without names, unthings named.
Poems lurk in primordial sea— the deathmute
abortion of fears mothered phantoms;
her strangled penumbral writhings,
unuttered, not invited…forsaken.
Poems are airy spirits invoked—
named things thinged, creation word-bourne.
Poems are the thought-born Athena— a spawnlight
from shadow appearing, I am that
I am affirming— O Brave New Logic,
'that has such people in it'!
Poems are the vanity of Lear—
Is apotheosizing, words that curse.
Poems are the dream of Prospero—
books drowned, a Father sea-changed,
concept and cosmos unconfounded,
re-visioned: 'in the beginning was the deed'.
Poems are the syzygy of shadow and self—
dark things owned, possessions let free.
Poems are nature awakening to itself—
Word become flesh, words, natural breath—
ancient agons atoning, seeing before perishing,
walking this earth together, becoming themselves.