Mortal oddment, there’ s no wish in the blood
But beat, but stay gift-strong, but make demands
To keep within veins this ore’ s diffuse gold,
These voices that know without being known —
These voices that riddle thought with herself,
Ridicule thought in her flimsy eternal
Gowns a child can tear in half with a breath —
That chorus arterial, unbribable,
Blowing song through self as a child blows
A dandelion apart —
All those weeds? —
Thistle’ s down and thistle’ s thorn, dumb yellow
Globes below that bind grass to their hollow creed,
Wind’ s meager flute, sere song, the whole field’ s late
Doom? Heart-blood? Voices, you? That’ s my portrait? —
I kept repeating, repeating, kept re —
To repair, to repair my, or not my — the
Mind’ s bower, but whose — who mines urgency —
Or whose mind regrets all those violets rooted
In violence — or I only mean thought, in thought,
Not violence, thinking, and the stupid leaf
Unfolding, mine, mine, mind. Here’ s the plot
All untended: Psyche and, and — some thief
Unnamed — no, some unnamed leaf, and the sun,
Yes, only the sun that through open eyes
Turns the livid leaf green. Not leaf. Meant wound —
Or is it wind, is it wind that split in half by
A gnat, by a blade of grass, always heals its gale —
What is the wound that is being healed, healed —