2.18.06

There is a hiatus in my writing:

Try me, as with fire, and I will come out gold.

Language is molten in the mercurial sphere,

as Lewis said; Incandescent etymologies, plumes of derivation from the word's atomic source.

Yet I am bound down to clauses,

pinioned by entailments, lapped up in

the rush of meaning, they come out embroiled in disorder.

I built a temple with my words,

deified indigities with adjectival froth and frillery.

Dissent, destroy the structure of my own invention,

coin me anew, cast in Your sight,

the Son I worship.