before I sit at
the desk, I’ll wash my hands, poetry
needs no tractates on itself,
I’ll bite a fresh bone, it won’t
decay in the gunpowder
of language, in dust and bromide    
in a handful of rain, I’ll look for a warm
woman and you will not touch
a single word if she hasn’t asked you
about her, and I will close my eyes and dive,
and then, all dead will come down from the attic,
black and solemn boatmen sail
from amazed mouth and
sing in broad strokes and aloud
above openings of sky