BEGINNING FROM DUST
I have no way of speaking except in silence.
Lambeth Manor or Lexington froth, all those
words come down from the revolutions of
another era : the American, the French, and
the mind of William Blake himself. Pencil scribbles
overlap the edges, and all those odd lines do make
a word, or two. New people come and color the
edges - and every new day has its own new
declension. Like the cut worm, forgiving the
plow, I grin back at all eternity, laughing aloud.
I am nothing now, but have come from less.
I am this big storm now, but began from dust.