The poem unsays itself out of the heart.
Out of its dark chambers, it lifts its blood-soaked head,
shakes off the darkness in a shower,
and is set backward beating into the vein.
Out of the vein it courses to the ear,
the ear crisp with blood and air,
passes from the inner house, unbanging the drum
as it goes, unsaying all meaning which unthinks
itself from the brain.
And out of the ear it springs,
unhooks itself and leaps
back to the poet
who sang these words into being.
Into the mouth it un-enunciates,
swallowing itself behind the tongue,
back down into the murky depths of soul.
In the end it sleeps,
a sleep from which the poet
must untangle the dream that will wake us all.