This Is The Poem  - ListenHere      

This is the poem I have not written;

this is the poem I’ve never known.

This is the poem that calls on me constantly

home to the wilderness of mistaken roads,

that forest of mute tongues on fire for you;

for you, again I speak without reason;

Again, for you I reason,

speechless words that refuse to lay down.

This is the voice I have not spoken;

this is the voice I‘ve never known.

This is the voice that listens too often

to reason that wanders through valleys

through shadows below fallen letters, chosen mishaps, 

baptized burdens lifted off of the page;

and nothing’s determined, but free willy-nilly,

and I know you can hear me when I speak like a clown.

This is the rest I have not written;

this is the rest I’ve never known.

This is the rest that calls me too often

home to the blood-covered poem;

home to the motherland, wet fertile crescent

forest, first language; this is the word,

desert spring, temple flood

flowing, but not watered down,

drawn from restless stones,

wrestled from the underground.

This is the poem I have not written;

this is the poem I’ve never known.

This is the poem that calls on me constantly

home to the wilderness of mistaken roads,

home,

home,

home to the wilderness

home to the wilderness

of mistaken roads.