Through
the father, through the feather of a son’s face
Through
the mother, through her daughter’s grace
Waste,
the latest moon tangled in the trees tonight
Chaste
as filthy syllables, the sordid words heroic
Couplets
break against, shatter on the very lips
Through
the promise, through the hope of snow
Through
the lies, through the night whelms it whelms
Stupendous
would-be thaw of spring, the rain
Before
us what, what will we, what will we pray?
When
even poetry deceives us in such dry days
What small salvation do we hope to drink?
O we taste more than angels what it means to doubt—
Not O not the mind with all its mountains all its water
But the
heart, the soul, the thing we thirst to write
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