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.
