I do not know how to write

a poem or anything else like

it. I must be written by the

poem or the verse or the prose,

which I am trying to write

and unwrite, till I become

one with the poem or prose,

and it undoes everything I

have done, else I will be but

a resounding gong without

love. The story must be told,

the verse must be recited

to me, else I will be only a nois-

y trumpet, marking out no

distinct call to action–only

a loveless soul that has no

intimate union with love.

I must be told the story;

the story must be told to

me. I must become the

poem; the poem must be-

come me, else I am with-

out love, a loveless shell

of a soul of a self without

the company of truth in

words written upon the

face of the earth and its

accompanying waters

of time-bending rhymes

and the rhythms of love.