Thursday, October 5, 2017
The Poem I Can't Write Version 2
This is the poem I can't write.
This is the tuning fork, the bells cast of Himalayan metal
the one good note sounding on a broken piano.
Where is it? Why can't I write it?
It's just too beautiful.
Who would trust someone like me
to utter the dreadful exquisite,
sing the endless glory of the universe?
Who would confer such a gift upon me?
Writing this poem would be like receiving a robe
of the finest silk,
a garment grave and sweet
as the speech at my father's funeral
when a thousand pipes
wail across the valley where trees dip in the wind.
This is the poem I will write, whether or not I am worthy.
Only I can stop me and I will not stop me, can not let go of the current,
trapped by the grip of my own electricity, charging and burning my hands
and I don't care. I am simply too small.
I am the poetic mouse who survives beneath the floorboards
while a world clatters above me.
I am the poem I have written.
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