How well the hand knows what it wants!
Even as I write, my body feels the words,
thought passing through a pen.
Forget monks, forget the monasteries of the mind.
When words flow too fast these live as drunkards,
and cannot see.
But the body always looks through a clear glass.
I write, and grow bold as sealing up cask.
Poems are heavy barrels the body craves,
words sure poison,
and also strange communion.
They are spilled before the body can say………..
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