To be, they say
is fair enough for any continent:
any soporof, any charging mane;
for me, an indefatigable sate, run
through with many merry madnesses:
to slight the silence as I stir,
and be far away from done—

—turn back around the rain you see?—

and yes, my lovers, swells be
blushed with bruising in the
beating patter grey; but color is a shade
and I was born to make in
stains of fetid white—
so ask: what being should I
be, you say, that I am incandescent
blue, and black, and grey?
Something moving, making, miracle—
in every doing’s day.