The world comes to us waiting to be born.
The world comes to us hungering
to be represented, to be re-presented
in symbol, in word, in art, in wine, in love,
in clean, clear-headed prose,
musical and rhythmic,
repetitive as a chant,
in poetry aching to turn language
into the unsaid peregrinations of what is.
All movements incarnate in the note,
the uncreated high C.
The world lusts to be shown itself
in itself and in all others, the specificity
of the earthen thing, the textured image
that flows leche as from a blue nun.
To be light-headed
is to be grounded.
To be grounded
is to soar above the world,
the atmosphere, the space-time continuum,
to soar to a planet’s-eye-view of life, to soar
past asteroid and comet, never missing
a pas de deux sunk deeply into the crust of the Earth.
To be grounded is the poem,
to transcend ground for sky
is the song. To sing, to sigh
is to show all that is.
To show is to again become
the rhythmic light, the musical dark,
the ravishing hunger of the world.