The fear of poetry is the 
fear : mystery and fury of a midnight street 
of windows whose low voluptuous voice 
issues, and after that there is no peace. 

That round waiting moment in the 
theatre : curtain rises, dies into the ceiling 
and here is played the scene with the mother 
bandaging a revealed son's head. The bandage is torn off. 
Curtain goes down. And here is the moment of proof.

That climax when the brain acknowledges the world, 
all values extended into the blood awake. 
Moment of proof. And as they say Brancusi did, 
building his bird to extend through soaring air, 
as Kafka planned stories that draw to eternity 
through time extended. And the climax strikes. 

Love touches so, that months after the look of 
blue stare of love, the footbeat on the heart
is translated into the pure cry of birds 
following air-cries, or poems, the new scene. 
Moment of proof. That strikes long after act. 

They fear it. They turn away, hand up palm out 
fending off moment of proof, the straight look, poem. 
The prolonged wound-consciousness after the bullet's shot. 
The prolonged love after the look is dead, 
the yellow joy after the song of the sun.