Poetry is lamb dust.
– Jack Kerouac

i roll in the dirt, i roll and i laugh,
and i know that the days are sincere enough for this.
i roll in the dirt, the dirt rolls in me. i roll and
i laugh, not knowing what more there is,
nor caring.

i wear dust for skin, i have reeds for bones,
i dance in the dust and make clouds on the earth.
i roll in the dirt and embrace this sincerity.
i am a child of six, a woman of twentythree;
or fiftythree? i've not been remembering, these days,
nor caring.

laughter is precious, is precocious; i wear the skin of
innocents and presume neither more nor less than should.
should i dance, should i weep, should i? i am sincere.
i embrace this existence between word and meaning,
i dance this communion of soul and speech,
neither understanding reserve,
nor caring if others cannot embrace this revelry.

this revelry, it is a poem; and while i dance in this existence,
i roll. i roll and i laugh,
that life is a poet
and no one yet knows
it.

01/06/2004

Posted on 01/06/2004
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