All the others translate: the painter
A visible world to love or reject;
Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches
The images out that hurt and connect,
From Life to Art by painstaking
Relying on us to cover the rift;
Only your notes are pure contraption,
Only your song is an absolute gift.
Pour out your presence, a delight
The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine,
Our climate of silence and doubt invading;
You alone, alone, imaginary song,
Are unable to say an exsistence is wrong,
And pour out your forgivness like a wine.