Sit on semi-wet sand-gold, on coat.
Lug-worm says, "And who are you?"Ask the waves but they reply:
"You're the ideas: mind behind eye,
'Oh!' behind nose, 'Mm!' under tongue,
bard behind ear, reach behind grasp.
We only signature, imprimatur."'Will you give me a blank?
Just your sign?'"You can try."
Present white paper.
No. Not white.'These whorls and ridges?
Whose these -
fingerprints to launder?Can you smooth them clean
imprint your own?'Bend down; pick up
an illegible stone.Oh, then,
ask the sun, since it
beats such sway, early April."I can tell you who you are not:
'neither Erasmus nor a robin',
not 'Eric The Half A Bee',
nor Mrs Duerdon nor a frog,
nor gargle-grinder nor onion chef ..."And on that stream
of dissolving nonsense,
doze in carmine and in green,
eyelids opening and closing,
as the shell-like spirals,
eccentric, long-ear twitches,
whispered by warm wind....But no. No sleep.
Car's parked on ticket.
Come - move on.
Stand up again - and here's your stick.'Then you can tell me, Joe.
Who am I?'"Dad."
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YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.