I fill all this air with sighs, seeing
the revolution of the stars, seeing
the colors of the leaves. I devour
seeds and stems, fleshy fruit, light
as if I were the darkness. I believe
in euphony, phonaesthesia, the rhetoric
of bugs and frogs. I fill all this air
with feeling, with emotive consonants
and semantic vocalisms. These vowels
resemble her breasts, the flowers render
her being poorly. I fill all this air
with repetitious phrasing, plagiarisms
and helpless thefts. I am the poet built
of nothing but the thundering of air.
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