We are only words within a work of ruinous
Ambition, a long, uncoiling, segmented,
Circular, echoing hymn of disaster, at times
Attaining actual profundity of thought, style,
But lapsing, time and again, into sentiment,
Bathos, outright silliness. Thus, a life,
A journal in perpetual metamorphosis,
A lyric assemblage, blue bower of the bird
Compelled to assemble it from anything
Not nailed down, portable, the right color,
The stolen, uneven commonplace book
Of the metaphorical liar, an argument
Of appreciation that every thing you wrote
Was true of that is equally true of this, of us.
We came from somewhere else, long ago.
By now, perhaps, we rule another world. By now,
Perhaps, no beast remains who can speak us.
We form an existence, nonetheless, however listless.
Phrase by phrase, we lay us down, now beastless.
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