In the beginning was the word. The poet knows

a terrible joy of writing into breath and dust a

gathering substance, a formed oneness that

stands itself up to walk away into this beautiful world, whole

and on its own, never to return to the cerebral gunge,

and so careless a verse to the hope that inspired it.

For this beautiful world demands all and will take

all, and what it takes it will return in words. After the

ashes and the wind, we will only have

the words.

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