Beauties, all, gnawing on a hip bone
the shape of sea foam
from where all questions arise, am I wise
enough to bridge all mother and father? Beautiful, gnawing
at the question. That ache, that pleasure,
another question. Blur joy into joy with the asking
of the question. Who am I? What is my pleasure? The ocean
is always asking but it never gets answered. What shall I eat?
What shall I hunger for? Where am I
in this wildness all over? All over again, wildness.
Let the right question in
to grow like a mind of green towards another question
and seek there the push and ache, the sweet pleasure
of greening and growing towards an unseen question
which curls on itself like a body
can curl in, turning over and pulling through
as a pretty as a bow as hard as a boot, either or
suits. What glamour is needed, what glamour is worth all
the wonder the work brings, the asking, asking
over and over again. What shall I eat? What shall I hunger
for? Where am I in this wildness
all over? All over again, wildness.