Created
June 9, 2019 19:11
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Lately having escaped three-kinded death | |
Not by evasion but by coming through | |
I celebrate what may be true beginning. | |
But new begun am most without resource | |
Stupid and stopped. | |
How do the newborn grow? I am of them. | |
Freshness has taken our hearts; | |
Pain strips us to the source, infants of further life | |
Waiting for childhood as we wait for form. | |
So came I into the world of all the living | |
The maimed triumphant middle of my way | |
Where there is giving needing no forgiving. | |
Saw now the present that is here to say: | |
Nothing I wrote is what I must see written, | |
Nothing I did is what I now need done.— | |
The smile of darkness on my song and my son. | |
Lately emerged I have seen unfounded houses, | |
Have seen spirits not opened, surrounded as by sun, | |
And have, among limitless consensual faces | |
Watched all things change, an unbuilt house inherit | |
Materials of desire, that stone and wood and air. | |
Lit by a birth, I defend dark beginnings, | |
Waste that is never waste, most-human giving, | |
Declared and clear as the mortal body of grace. | |
Beginnings of truth-in-life, the rooms of wilderness | |
Where truth feeds and the ramifying heart, | |
Even mine, praising even the past in its pieces, | |
My tearflesh beckoner who brought me to this place. |
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