A Bawdy Profession

Everything in the world exists in
order to culminate in a book”

—, If then lightly attuned
to our visionary dead

Every book of the world exits
culminates in a poem
ending in fingerprinted pages
a shepherded construct
at which only look—forget—place
a little of life’s work lies
mettle unfiled from possession
forgiving stolen rest;

Myriads forsaken; Closed eyes
on the tame and mild
unfathoming this stay
no—name knotted
assumed loose among
its casual besotted blessed
transcriptions irrevocable
by the tied not yet affixed
with our visionary living,—