I have in my throat one world that I cannot speak, will not free through its thrust of blood pounds me. If I voiced it, it would scorch the living grass, bleed the lamb, fell the bird.

The solitary fretwork
they gave me at birth
that goes from side
to fiery side...

Loneliness I gave myself,
loneliness they gave me,
the small tithe I paid the lightning
of my God, sweet and tremendous.

My play of give and take
with clouds and with the winds
and what I knew,
trembling,
of secret springs...