From “Romanticisms”

Mortal oddment, there’s no wish in the blood But beat, but stay gift-strong, but make demands To keep within veins this ore’s diffuse gold, These voices that know without being known — These voices that riddle thought with herself, Ridicule thought in her flimsy eternal Gowns a child can tear in half   with a breath — That chorus arterial, unbribable, Blowing song through self as a child blows A dandelion apart — All those weeds? — Thistle’s down and thistle’s thorn, dumb yellow Globes below that bind grass to their hollow creed, Wind’s meager flute, sere song, the whole field’s late Doom? Heart-blood? Voices, you? That’s my portrait? — I kept repeating, repeating, kept re — To repair, to repair my, or not my —the Mind’s bower, but whose — who mines urgency — Or whose mind regrets all those violets rooted In violence — or I only mean thought, in thought, Not violence, thinking, and the stupid leaf Unfolding, mine, mine, mind. Here’s the plot All untended: Psyche and, and — some thief Unnamed — no, some unnamed leaf, and the sun, Yes, only the sun that through open eyes Turns the livid leaf green. Not leaf. Meant wound — Or is it wind, is it wind that split in half   by A gnat, by a blade of grass, always heals its gale — What is the wound that is being healed, healed —