It’s the heart’s speak-out troth-clad

It’s a course of wingless words come rolling in

Waves, air-harriers,

Portmanteaux with the anxious mouth as nurse

And all the time plays tremor on a server nerve

And it’s called feeling

The appeal in self-revealing words unreeling:

How in the depths depth feels

And it feels tender there

The words like rain, obtain the main line routing

Like blood winds circulating arteries

Bringing around the body’s furthest parts

Its life-deliverance. Such are words

Come wearing caring with the life arriving

Depositing payloads.

All’s overthrown of feeling

All like a voice an ardent person hearing

Which carries in its note; a throat connote expression

Capillaries, vessels, burning in the breast

One scarce-free falter in a mortal voice

Discloses far too much, a speckled catch;

No freeze-dried swathe of words upon a page

Can handle half so much; it like a candle lit

Shows all at once in farthest parts of Gordian night

So breaks the bread of sudden safest well-being

A tendering of comfort

Although, as some have tried, and tasked, succeeded

Who threw the voice-made-minstrelsy by hand

A few, a band of buried secretaries, warbling on,

A very few so far along have come, to take pre-eminence

Theirs is a voice which sows spirit in timbrels, odours,

Travelling into paper by the ink as though

This petulant ink-flow were a continuation downwards

From a warm arm having recourse to raptured heart

By way of head and blood and august serendipity

Life-giving to the tips

Their moving fountain spilling out into the paper

A stain that somehow pleases in uneasy pain

As joy in sorrow bearing in neat refrain

Goes burrows burrows underneath the skin

Where words do flow together; a mysterious conjunction

And thus this is in us: come corpuscles line-dancing

Rejoicing in the voicing of a tether’s moving free

And all our being reassembled, brought before

A doorway, window, to rapport enjoining