I fear losing my strangeness, my hands and feet
dissolving, my distinctive features bleeding
into a bleary rabble. The patient man perched
on his balcony, who waits for the clan, the tribe,
or the chaotic crowd to decide his future,
he makes me hum and drum my fingers.
My highest home is in this world
where the work of my hands is rewarded.
My highest law is my mother’s
and my father’s wit that almost
always kept their children safe.
My highest friend and mentor is artistry,
that makes a song of want and error;
and the prevailing desire of my body and mind
is the creation of new life. I speak as one
who won’t be fastened to any ill-fitting philosophy—
go against multitudes, pious congregations,
sensational throngs, and the oh-so happy hordes
and their creeping mind-deleting drunkenness.
