the milk of speech

an upside-down river 
tumbles from the sky
giving us the impression
of consciousness
rain the long circuitous road
of intelligence
became a bird and entered the forest of arden
ripe with thought I ate the flesh of its fruits
fungus and roseacious I 
was a person and gave birth there
in the hollow of a felled pine
squinted through the drops at the seer
the true beloved of shakes
spear and the poet xemself combined
like as if, without a mirror,
you could peer into your own eyes
and not be backward there
it’s either your song or it’s
the hum of bees
all else is grief
an edge as fine
as the fruit fly’s wing
the very milk of speech
at whose command the air
and wing stand apart