You are here,
she said,
to take a tentative chance
on the infinite, to teethe,
lovingly, on the numinous zipper of a star
or two,
to gamble away innocence
with a fortune teller’s palm,
grinning stigmata, and not a single shred of guilt
(leave Religion’s business to its flocks),
rot
and ruin will not
do you any good,
the necessity of manure
as fertilizer, and the unending memory
of blue, yes, those things will benefit you,
but rot and ruin, uh-uh, leave those for the tubercular
and the dead.
Remember to remember,
this the whole reason why you’re here,
the winding and ever-widening tunnel
to lighted re-member-ing,
and please do not forget,
that when you write,
none of the words,
not a single one,
belongs to you,
they are the bones and shells
and pearls of a majestic river-run,
and if you are lucky enough
to catch on and get carried along
by what is the equivalent of a liquid
magic carpet ride,
understand, that you are,
at best, a humming conduit,
and privileged guest
in the crystal house of Muses.
So go,
go now,
backed by your soul’s aptitude,
and take a chance on the infinite,
with a clear conscience,
and no assurances,
only dares
into the holy unknown,
where Wonder reigns
with the lightest touch.