Don’t ask us for the word whose purpose is to frame
our formless soul on every side and, like a crocus lost
yet burning brightly in a field of dust,
proclaim it, spell it out in lettering of flame.

Happy the man who makes his way without regret,
a friend to others, to himself, at ease,
a stroller in the dog days, hardly caring when he sees,
imprinted on a crumbling wall, his silhouette!

Don’t ask us for some lyric turn of phrase to grant
you access to new worlds. Today we bring
a few wrenched syllables, dry sticks, by way of offering,
to tell you what we are not, what we do not want.