My sister—sixteen years my
senior—reads most poems I
make. She says I’m full of it . . .
referring to poetry.
By phone this morning she did
ask about the origin.
So what she could not know, I
get all my poems from else
where, lifting them as words of
prey from the dictionary . . .
or from writers more refined
than I, witness Ken Wilber.
I start each day, early morn,
making a poem that comes
from direct experience
filtered through my unconscious.
Whereas afterward, I read.
What I read recent stunned me.
It comes from Wilber’s One Taste,
selections of reflections
on his integral viewpoint,
page three-hundred-forty-two:
“Can you right now show me your
Original Face, of which
there is One and Only One. . . ?”
Ah, the title, “One, Only”
came from reading Wilber in
October, two-thousand-two!
Lately, I’ve been re-reading
and noticed the word stealing,
from lo, twelve years ago.
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