Tuesday, June 20, 2017

MNEMONIC

You don't have to know what it means,
or even
how to make it.

Just think of poetry—as
something
which,

one day
you suddenly
happen

to wake up
and find yourself
in the middle

of having been
more or less doing
for decades already.

Actually—less
like speaking

and more
like
singing—that is,

singing in your sleep:
without that syntactic
net of guarantees—

in rhythms
with no history

and in tunes
without fates,

and on an instrument
felicitous
only, perhaps

here and there, to
an embittered
old sphinx

or occasional
impenetrable
Delphic oracle;

and each
as valuable only
as much it can be

unattended,
and of course,
apropos

of no intention
you could name,
not even—and maybe

especially—
upon waking.

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