Nothing That I Less Willingly Part Withal — Except
Or, To They Who Run When No Muse Chaseth
a warning by a Faust
A bird is preening: & the likelihood,
all things weighable of course considered,
that it would read this, even if it could,
may be in fact too small to be conjectured —
yet — in my near absolute certainty
that, given my verse for a chance inspiration,,
the bird, if it could, would enjoy this, & happily,
I find, somehow, a fit consolation —
one I doubt can be found, now, or ever
by any who call themselves ‘Poet’ by theft;
their wit finds no thing with which to be clever
because of authenticity — bereft —
The experienced Sacred, made tangible, real:
Nevermore felt deserved by motherfvckers who steal.
the poem
that you stole from me
I too had stolen
from a wood thrush
preening in a sand pine
@sagestone_ 22 Oct 2017
