Though the poem is no more of spirit
Than anything else, and we reject it no
More than other small things, still we fear it,
Quivering like, beneath a jet, a crow,
Yet the incommunicable comes through stones
And eyes that cause the pains of compassion
And the trajectories of each quip blown
Like a talisman to eyes that are ashen.
The symbols are our own, they have become
The measure of our striving, far from home,
As if we would be solved like an equation
With only the gibberish of the tribe
To hold up to the skies, to inscribe
Permanence among the unseen nations.
