What if I should tear up the Oxford Dictionary?
Put all the pieces in a hat, mix them up
And reach for the sky, and there tip
them out?
No more a beautiful book would I get
Than had I torn my heart out
And from my sequestered treasure there
made
A flying scroll that through all heaven
flew
And yet, it was true there was one there
And so perfect was it, in total loss of
me
That even the severed pieces of my heart
Made a beautiful book there in spite of
me
But a book none could read for it was
death
In my pages of broken words which way
shall I go?
Being dead I could travel in any one of
four directions
In each were many things to tell, hardly
told before:
Hidden turnings, tasting of crushed
apple-pips and honey
The bitter with the sweet...the things we
put aside for
They were like the bird, singing beyond
our back verandah
“Bend your head, bend your head” ...we
didn’t like them
But the torn book, the scroll made from
my split mind
Bravely spinning in me that savage thread
of utter-ness
It slides through the buckled folds of Love’s
cloak
Tying for me there the kindness of the belt
of truth
Keeping me all pieced together and
certain safe
If I do the truth and truthful stay unafraid
for my skin
*
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