It's not to speak
my mind
at all,
but rather
to climb
inside the language
like a power suit,
like chainmail—
to feel huge
and yet invisible,
buoyantly quixotic
in a world
full of windmills—
to feel utterly protected,
secure in my belief
in the feats
of which it's capable—
and yet still,
when I get
near a poem's end,
to flail;
to panic, then
go limp;
to let go
and admit
I don't know shit—and
even if I did,
I surely
haven't said it.
