The harried
earth is swept
The trees
the tulip's bright
tips
sidle and
toss—
Loose your love
to flow

Blow!

Good Christ what is
a poet—if any
exists?

a man
whose words will
bite
their way
home—being actual
having the form
of motion

At each twigtip

new

upon the tortured
body of thought
gripping

the ground

a way
to the last leaftip