I’m a thief—taking from life
words that belong to me not
in the least, then sharing them
as if they were my own.
I’m a fraud—using the form
of verse to express what can
not really be put in words
for they often prove a trap.
Eliciting some feeling
is what poems appear for,
feeling be-ing proves the point
monkish poems arise for.
Word made flesh, dwells deep the world.
Let go the rock of ages.
Give up the ocean of grace.
Have no regard for heaven.
Be still, and envelope all.
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