Nor poem delights me neither
of any I have written:
to end this line with ether
is where the morning begins.
Ether, its opiate
shifting the conception to end
I do not know if I love or hate,
seek in verse or write to amend.
The morning begins with ether
pure and cold and sunlit,
the cold dominant and sure
against my little bit.
And so I rage in an ethered
numbness of the cold,
my mind and heart together
stamping on all I’ve told.
What use the flow of passion
twisted into a rhyme
to tell in an old fashion
what soul intuits sublime
when all it is ether
connecting star to star
or hypothesis of how things were
before they shone so far.
Sun, stars, you burn away
all substance in between;
burn my soul till it no longer alloy
dream and doubt in a vapor unseen.