Words are for those with promises to keep.
I have no promises. Shut the door, the stars
are not wanted just now, put out every one.
Everyone hates the bird with one wing. The bird
with one wing can’t fly, but man can she sing.
The sings she sings make me shell not stone,
I have no promises, make me blue and fragile,
I have no words. She is a spectacle, the angel
on top of the weeding cake. I have no promises,
I splatter my words, incoherent shards
that make a light nimbus against the wet
pavement on a night almost like this,
but with stars. With stars.
(found poem: take lines from existing poetry, recombine, make something new, voila! This is taken from Gertrude Stein, WH Auden, and Paula Gunn Allen, and was written in 15 minutes. It’s easy to go wild when Gertrude is there.)