Ecco

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from

one boot to another—why don’t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists

of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,

I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from

one boot to another—why don’t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists

of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,

I don’t even want to come in out of the rain

and I thought
how I meant to live a quiet life
how I meant to live a life of mildness and meditation
tapping the careful words against each other

Here in my head, language
keeps making its tiny noises.

And have you made inquiry yet as to what the poetry of this world is about?

I am capable of pondering the most detailed knowledge, and the most fastened-up, impenetrable mystery, at the same time.

Language is, in other words, not necessary, but voluntary

Language is, in other words, not necessary, but voluntary.

Little by little
the ocean
empties its pockets—

listen,
passion did it,
called me forth,
addled me,
stripped me clean
then covered me with the cloth of happiness—