January: Year-day 21

                                     
                                          
January: Year-day 21

It can take so long to create a poem
as this one, so image-connecting long,
the maker's nearly wizened by the song/
he finally sings, he gives a small home.

One watching him might think he'd rather roam
through cities and countrysides, beat a gong,
or jingle a tambourine for a throng
of dopes than wrestle words that slip & foam.

How odd a decent place of residence
for words/ must come through a kind of defeat
of them, that only as the user pins/
each/ for those moments when it most makes sense,
when its powers and his/ properly meet,
does he quicken a lodging/ where spirit wins.

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