To They Who Run When No Muse Chaseth -- a warning by a Faust

 

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