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All these words, half-lies we spend our strength on,
like calling that roil in the inner ear
(from the clench of the small tools vibrating there)
"a wind in a shotglass" or "hummingbird-wingbeats,"
or "miniature thunder of amplified ants
as they wend their rapid ways," all this fuss
of sound and assertions of tuneful thought
(white acres of mist declared to be mountains)
must have a purpose, or why would such practice
simply refuse to cease? Is there use
in saying that blood seethes unsayably-purple
within us? that breath thrums the drums of the lungs?
O, word-fingers pointing toward Emptiness
or the beat of the slow quadrilles of the stars,
I know (for sure) only this: if we learned
we're nothing more than God's terminal cancer,
our function just taking up space on the planet,
we'd simply make songs out of that.
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