Cave

Not still a poet, not yet a individual perhaps, or a human, or not thus far as I'd know now,

I lie hid in the lobe of a cave, before me canopy of heaven a tangle of branch, a tree I can't name.

Not however in a myth, tale, history, chronicle of a race, or a race, I don't know if I speak,

and if I do speak, I don't know if I pray-to what pray?-or if I sing; do I dare sing?

Who would be with me? Would there be indication of household past the scatter of se

the cracked make open gnawed open bones there would have to have been to sustain me?

Cold frigid ending; rain rising and ending, at any time menacing night circling towards me;

might I dream, at least, singing toneless nearly, sum of two units notes or three, modeless, on the other hand singing?

Not yet in a garden, of morality or of mind, not notwithstanding in the shimmering prisms of reflection,

there must be past the prattle and haggle of breath a certain quantity of aspiration to propel me.

A gust of upgroaning ardor, flurries of sad meditation, nostalgia for with equal reason much already lost:

in a cause to stumble of uncountable syllables spun from throb and passion something sings, and I sing.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Sep/Oct 1996

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