Paddling With Breathlessness on Stilts I Write

15

Until now, I knew I possessed nothing
Damned by decrees of my own
Selfishness, I pretended

Behind a circus show of reason
At the Ball of tantalized feeling
But now, I know the way the world ends

Whatever else I might succumb to
It will be the poetry of freedom
Without rhetoric, or tricks of lying

Or slang speech particular to my times
Until now, I hid in incredible musical scales
Behind melodies, beneath the chorus

All poets pick themselves out of rivers
I’m half-deceived, by the lovers who left me
Because I was nothing but a poet

But it’s my first white wave of climbing hope
The last word I say before my doom
Whatever else, poetry is my first freedom

So don’t ridicule me for loving a kind of art
My dream is an impatient cadence pure
That gives me resurrection, when life

Offers me none, these flaming parenthesis
Have become my means of transcending you.

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