---from The Sonnets to Orpheus
A god can do it. But will you tell me how
a man can penetrate through the lyre's strings?
Our mind is split. And at the shadowed crossing
of heart-roads, there is no temple for Apollo.
Song, as you have taught it, is not desire,
not wooing any grace that can be achieved;
song is reality. Simple, for a god.
But when can we be real? When does he pour
the earth, the stars, into us? Young man,
it is not your loving, even if your mouth
was forced wide open by your own voice---learn
to forget that passionate music. It will end.
True singing is a different breath, about
nothing. A guest inside the god. A wind.
My Improv':
We are not gods: our flat lives cannot
speak between worlds. We do not have
love immortal or bodies made beautiful
for sex. No one ever said of a man's
penis, "how poised, how divine." Suppose
we learn to enjoy the ugliness like Frankenstein's
monster learns to enjoy the silent science
of his creation. We are not passionate stars
burning out our death, but suspended matter
handing like the moon over our heads.
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