The Still Page

It starts in storm from the allergic mouth.

It yields to none but writhes to be let out.

Constructing hands vanquish from east to south,

But let life fly and be found out about.

It starts in storm from the allergic mouth,

So breathe in time to the whipping of air

And do not count or wish or remember;

Storms like babies know when lines make care.

And oh! When whirling wakes its every note

And every ink drop soaks its paper place,

When chaos empties out from in her throat

The core of all our universal race,

Then hoarse and spent step out with this third eye;

Then settled, let us see from this new sky.