This illusory fleck
You might be a poet, wringing what truth comes
from words, those charlatans, tricks of breath,
yet something to pursue while chiseling away
at your own fraudulence. You might be
given a choice, one day – art or truth.
Surely, you’ll drop the attachment then,
to language, inspiration, conceptual thinking, too;
take a bite out of that red bright, indisputable apple,
a mouth too full to speak. Or in shrieks of laughter,
ankle-deep wade the mountain stream,
like a holy roller on the pinewood floor,
bewilderment and incoherence your worship,
your life’s duty – not from any ecstasy
but from piety, sobriety and humility.
Wave from the flowing bridge; engage
in the marvelous activity of doing nothing
to understand and change this illusory fleck
you, as a person of words, have tenaciously explored
and so patently, obsessively, for yourself
and others, attempted to navigate and explain.
O child of God, if you are ever given the chance –
drop the words; kneel in awestruck silence.