We adore fresh words in our mouths,
but news is only new until you know it.
Take, for example, your favorite joke.
Recited until you know it,
it changes over time. When you offer
to tell it, your friends groan. They know it.
Give it time. There are words you’ve never
said, a theme sung only by gods who know it.
It’s said they hear us try to speak,
mimicking their song until we know it
by heart. Our father, it starts, and the spirits
groan. We translate so poorly; reap, sow it.
But I do the things I do inspired; you know it.
I crave you; soon your ears will know it.
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Take a song, take a pledge,
put into your mind and stow it,
Put the note of the hickory tree in your ear
and relinquish the fact that you know it.
Inhale the shadow of murmurs and strife
later sit down and compose it.
Recoup a single predicament, life,
shackles and rage will destroy it.
Writing a line spilling out from the deep,
synesthesia within, as you know it.
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