11.

Taboo in the stem of my skull, the danger

I make for myself, or would, instinct

In dreams askance in day or night, bleeds

The light at the end of my fingers, wastes

The songs I might make for the young. The clay

I would shape with touch and justice would melt

In the rain that drives out the sun, the pledge

I gave that day I first spoke. The way

Gives way: rules — each has its prison —

Mazes that exchange precepts for breath. This ghost

Smothers this soul, these bones, a fiction

That can work up a sweat. Dreams matter.

Some urge, some turn, you will plead and coax

The sting of flesh, the mind, is no hoax.