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 —