If nothing sings is that a reason to forsake
My word, as it is possessed
Of clover, saplings? -- Blood still dissipates the veins
Even if it is pebbles, even if it is rock
And their is no shame in saying the truth.
What I say must be a part of that
To which and in which it is said: the dark
Minerals for example and their sound.
But this is not a song --
Anymore than when the air moves what is green
Or the unwed shows herself
Herself in what is clear. Or
If someone harvests something in tight intervals?
The truth is that what I can devise has been devised --
And so to witness this device is my device:
I must describe.
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