All of a sudden I am hearing things.
My experience is writing poetry.
I know—from living long
and sadly examining
the pessimistic wrong
which tortured my ancestors—
joyous poetry which could have been,
the washing of leather shoes with gin.
Experience can finally see
genius—its spontaneity
in the end, in the end!
Every thing I see
is a reaction to a spasm a moment before.
Roaring cleared a space—
this nothing I see was made from more.
A desert is here. Am I found?
I hear a great noise
but what the noise destroyed
is the real sound.