Looking for a screen on which to throw my patterns,
I plotted to write the poem of the world.
I looked among ancient flags and Chinese lanterns,
searched for just the right surface – a smooth, long unfurled
scroll. And everywhere I looked I found this
message, repeated in various scripts and fonts:
“Why must you always expect to be astounded
by what you’ve seen before? Depicted haunts
of god, man, woman, beast, muse, where they lived and roamed –
none of this is anything more than what you’ve seen,
known, been and done. And as for the world’s poems,
they’ve already been written, already been gleaned.
Just who have you made prisoner within your flue?
A genie to help you peel back the blue?
What do you think he’ll find behind that final screen?”
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[Next: My Father's Name]