Poiein

And
Bless my flesh
And
Give it voice
To make it Word:

Then, bless my Word.

Do not put on It the weight
of Thing
of Selfful Thing
of Willful Thing
of heavy opaque oily substance
of Thing
to carry to Golgotha on Its back
(they look alike,
the Word,
the Thing –
with arms outstretched
the Thing’s the silhouette of Word
but nameless
‘til
it heaves the body of the Word from the earth up unto its breast)

Do not smother my Word
by the material of Thing
Do not force Thing by laws of physics then to hold
the dead Word
on the wooden horizontal beam it has for arms
on Golgotha

I’ve written much without words,
Without voice to read my text,
Without lips to shape my sound,
Without eyes to fathom lips,
Without flesh to love the Thought

Was it the same for You before
The waters murmured in the sea
Your glory
And the starlight etched in the sand
Your might?

Is that why You made Adam out of Adamah?

To be
The poet – petty pet! – caged in Your image:
On his wording cising lips
Always to taste the brine of the desire
To make the Superman

who would be low and who yet
would offer songs of praise
to which his mangodmaker might
remain forever deaf, and curse
his own lawed nature for himself and for his world?