And who here is not excellent?

Who here has not captured
a baby's embodiments
while marking the moment with a kiss?

Words?

A poem can never breathe with angel's breath
or see with Adam's eyes.

The now, gray-mattered!
Organic matrix, imprinted!
Wetwear, hardwired!

That's how we write our truest songs.

But not with poor words. They are as mute as black holes.

'Tis you, kkompanions, who must accept the bow.

It is your eyes that open,
your minds that fill,
your hearts that feel
the songs
you pretend
I sing.

The whole of it. All. Everything, do you invent within.

Saluting beauty without
proves your inner eye
carves off, like Mikkelangelo,
the rough chunks of my stone
until I arc as you do within.

So come.
Define me again.

Create
my smiling face
for you.