All the others translate: the painter sketches A visible world to love or reject;
Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches The images out that hurt and connect.
From Life to Art by painstaking adaption. Relying on us to cover the rift;
Only your notes are pure contraption,
Only your song is an absolute gift.
Pour out your presence, O delight, cascading The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine. Our climate of silence and doubt invading;
You alone, alone, O imaginary song.
Are unable to say an existence is wrong.
And pour out your forgiveness like a wine.