Make me a poem
A great white poem
words full of rushing
staccato measures
patterns for flying
and movement of grasses—
or round, like the path of the tuning-fork’s sound,
round and liquid and gold.
Give me the voices of wandering people,
let them incense me with vagaried turnings.
Shout me October or moan me November.
Pour me the silence of two other worlds
into a little blue jar.
