I, a silvery thing, come flashing by—
by night or day, I don’t know when.
I made a hook out of my intellect,
and forged it into an icon of man’s ire—
a slippery, silvery thing. My words
enter the skeleton of the mind,
which does not let the darkness out,
nor let the earth’s words sing.
Nor does a poem always rhyme—
it is as if we were too weak or too correct
to say the truth to ourselves—
too weak in the knees, sir, to genuflect.
For I, a slippery, silvery thing, cannot speak at all—
except in the guise of a whole cosmos—
so central to our fears that I must disguise
my voice again—or I will cut you with my lies.