Even the motes of dust he petitions
to be friendly faces. And the undulance
of his desire, the dancing of the waves that mint
the rhythm of his workaday experience,
was always to be seen and viewed smaller
than the truth, the world at large, like the horror
that inhabits it – its beastly denizen – told taller.
Even the motes of dust seem to suit him
and the sparse girth of his calling, the drum
of each moment in his mind the drum
of the page that whitens as it blackens
before him. In short, the sum of his arrogance
might be found in a space between dance and sense
and sound; a poet, after all, is only a man
in the mirror, making sense of what he can’t.