Thursday, September 08, 2011

from I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You

one loves only form,
and form only comes
into existence when
the thing is born

                           born of yourself, born
                           of hay and cotton struts,
                           of street-pickings, wharves, weeds   
                           you carry in, my bird

                                                            of a bone of a fish   
                                                            of a straw, or will   
                                                            of a color, of a bell   
                                                            of yourself, torn

Charles Olson