Let the words take me, for I am of words alone.
I have tried to be different things and have failed,
losing even the words, losing myself in gibberish.
I have taken stone and ink in hand,
have taken on the satin mask of mime,
have fashioned wings of bone and kite string.
I have taken other bones, and onions, and have made
soup, but no poetry. Broth is not my medium—
thinner than lifeblood, and only nourishing.
I have taken up the palette knife,
and cut cheese with it: a red round of gouda
that looked good on the plate but not the page.
And as a watercolor painter finds a bit of marble,
thinks it would be fine to carve a tortured face,
and fails—and thinks because of it he is no artist
after all, so have I tried bending to my purpose
those stuffs that are not mine. I must run now
and overtake the words before they’re gone:
let them swarm over me, cleaning the bones.