If ever this poetry could
touch the dulcet chirruping of birdsong,
each word’s import would
become superfluous to its charm.
Nonsense syllables would be
at its heart,
the gist of a riddle giving
everyone a good laugh;
each poem an ornament hung
from the neck,
a stud in the lobe of an ear,
a beauty that speaks for itself
rather than this old hair
shirt cut to fit, dutifully gilding
the dissonance and duplicity
of both words and thought.
This birdsong poetry would
then take flight
and I would follow, no longer
grounded
by my inarticulacy, ignorance
and desire.
Truth and beauty would appear
together onstage,
in pure harmony singing the
story of existence –
a love song without meaning
beyond the telling of the tale,
the love that creates and
sustains it
and the love of which it is
constructed.
O child of God, if ever you
are able to write poems
of birdsong caliber, you will
have no need for words.
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