And now I have picked up the rattle gourd
That has so much to say, all of it me.
What is there to make of this landed sword?
What can I say when all there is to see
Can be shared? That is, it can't be called art.
It's not of the original, the private
That speaks to what we refuse to make part
Of the humanity that would devour it
As its just dessert for shared suffering
As if there is no other offering
But the tribute of the already known,
The almighty owned, not things without sense
Adrift from time and space and our omniscience,
The only things that are worth expression.
