The foot on the wood,
the heat surging through the It -
seems the grandeur to the fauna
(here with the public; here in the sauna).
the long way makes the hot top
the bitumen of the home.
the exile is no It, the fear,
the doubt that belongs here
in this, or at the most, the poems.
To be the conduit of the beauty,
to be the somewhere -
(between the dirt and the birdfilled air),
the song is surging through the you -
that is the pretty thing, that is the wish.
Even the silent know the song
the playing in the veins, the thong-
thing approaching the throb, the Beethoven
within the would-be okay.
The sharpening of the sense /
the perishing of the present tense.
The salt, the rising to the surface
of the body reminds the It
of the attention given the commotion --
the It having crawled from the ocean;
the ancient speaks of the secrets embedded
in the flesh. The body
has endured the shortness of the lesson
the how-to-be-here, the how-to-jettison.
But the It has changed the shapes.
The It has changed the song.
We found the few that remained of the drawings:
they spoke to the ancient of the loosening of the moorings.