Nobody was more massive, more pointless,
More less read, more more less, than was my balneology.
Behold! Herbarium, towering lingam, cornstalk of the Pueblo,
Idiot graphic of rock art's indeterminacy, song
Of the male of a little species grown, momentarily,
Great, greater than the cedars and the cetaceans.
Are we done? I want to curl up my ego like a bedroll
And hide in a natural alcove like a Peruvian sacrifice
Or a bog victim for a thousand and a thousand years.
There's an insert, a tip-in in the folio of the master,
The mistress, the one who created the complete, compacted
Facsimile of a poem, a hymn, a book of prayer in the unknown.
I have finished the song I inherited from others than
My parentage. Here I am. Gone. Oh, if only, if only.
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