As If Anything In Language Could Make Language Tremble

Two things interested God about poetry, 
at least the stuff 
God cared to read -- 
                                     music and voices. 

The way sounds rub against sounds
and words brush words
thrilled God, 
as if language had a mind of its own, 
beyond the maker's intent
or the speaker's desires.

God was distracted 
by the rhythms of human speech, 
the singular sounds that defined 
singular identities. 

These two qualities of language, 
the music of words and the spoken voice, 
created any magic there was to find in poetry,
God said.

The thirst that compels poetic practice,
God said,
is quenched by a vast river
flowing from these two trickles.

God said, 
You don't have to play
jazz trumpet or have a tune
stuffed in your back pocket
to be a poet, 
but you must embrace
the long apprenticeship in the language. 

God said,
You must
humble yourself on the shore of the Word. 

You must dive naked in that milky river 
and swim against the current of language. 

Tugboats will push long barges upstream, 
and the waves will kick 
you always toward the muddy shore.

                                               Ha! Hallelujah!