The man in the poem is a man with no name.
He marks out the pace,
never thinking of his own fame.
For fame is a thing that is not of the poem.
The poem is the man
and the man is alone.
The man in the poem often goes his own way,
both readying night
and establishing his own day.
He lives on a hill, where his visitors come.
They ask who he is
and he asks where they’re from.
Ahhh! He rests in the refrain.
Watch as he sleeps. Let the measures mind the train.
Ahhh! He modifies his pace.
See how the lines have collected on his face.
The poem is the man and the man is the poem.
The man is the poem
and the poem is his home.
The man in the poem leaves his loved ones behind.
They stick to his thoughts,
remaining vivid in his mind.
A few he forgets. To a few he returns,
forgetting their names,
which he learns and relearns.
The man in the poem gathers up all his threads –
the blues and the whites,
the duller grays, the gleaming reds.
For he is the poem and the poem is the man,
and neither were there
before the poem began.
Ahhh! His cadence marks the peak,
naming his things as his things begin to speak.
Ahhh! He triumphs on his mound –
vanishing there, where the stanza makes its round.
The poem is the man and the man is the poem.
The man is the poem
and the poem is his home.