Soundless in its intimate everness
which is without vision of purity
a neuropoetic device of sound
encompasses the moon inside your eyes.
more like a Dove than receptacle,
I am the bird of imagination
caught between the hours of a vision
nothing more or less than anything else
the ingredient American verse
which has never known another as this
the writing on the wall is a cloud breath
filled with the details a symphony
making music itself world of spirit
and for art for art's sake without limit.
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