Lord, I Fashion Dark Gods,

I Cut My Teeth As The Black Raccoon-- For Implements Of Battle.

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

For We Must Be One Thing Or The Other, An Asset Or A Liability, The Sinew In Your Wing To Help You Soar, Or The Chain To Bind You To Earth.

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.