by the heretofore
derelict sun,
warblers flood
the lawn, repeating
the only note
they know by heart—
as if
serving the light
by taking dictation—
as if the world's
most transcendent art
were to wring
every last bit
of tartness from it,
leaving, thereby,
only sweetness behind.
And perhaps,
some canny witness
may say
that to act out of impulse
can never be sublime—
that there is no transcendence
in quotation
of a known text.
And all I could say
would be that I
agree:
there is only
every implication.
