Poetry is not a calling, for me. More
an intermittent whisper, or possibly a peeling:
one whittles when anxious. They say Grant,
at the Battle of the Wilderness, stripped dozens
of unoffending branches. Collateralia.
So on a bright Spring day when a young man
ought to be getting his healthy exercise
(and avoiding self-pollution) I grasp
a less problematic rune-stick, a Welsh
I Ching, a private prophecy: one keeps thinking
naked truth might appear, till one
looks down to find the stick is peeled to nothing
and the truth is still unsaid.
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