The wind is still tilting in the leaves.

I am not myself, this blue sky
Winks at the edges of the leaves
Wind-blown while the ocean of air
Waves to the purple passages of cars.

Things are rarely what they seem;
I'm least myself when I'm at home –
Not even a narrative cut
From many verbs progresses except
Through the instance, even the insistence,
Of what it is not. I hate lyric, false
And lying composition of the self,
Like so many idle gods.

I see things moving around me: I
Am in flux, but detest revision,
Infinite or definite, as if some moment
Future will compose me, what I say
Is not yet true.

I would like to destroy the self,
Put it through fire, eat it,
Wither these lies. Even language
I long to peel until her deceptive bells
Crack, and peal no more.

Neither moments nor time,
There is no here, there is
No now, and we do not exist.

We need to stop seeing
With sight, which the mind transcribes
Into memory, like so many poems.
There is no difference, I offer
No deference to, but only an eternal
Deferral between poetry and prose,
Since both already say:
When will we stop dividing our speech
Into categories (a real deferral)
And begin to listen, in order to hear
Nothing?