How does one begin, grace withheld, to keep,
with thunderous nonsense floating out
on nature’s blundering step,
one’s native senses stout?
How does one’s song, pretentious to the end,
regale a hall of witless whim,
and never reach what ne’er was sent,
the places best it’s warming, trim?
How long there lies within us all,
lies within us, all tightly tethered;
a mirror’s mirror to boon, enthralls,
while hearts lay scarred and feathered?
How still, the talk of soundless wind,
can still the talk of sound, less still,
and draw from death a life to find,
when all but hope has had its fill?