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The Guilt of the Poem

You have no right to utter the deepness of those maid-air overturned bowls cherry-pink along the river -- not even for a moment's praise. You have no claim, not even the most spider-wiry, on the May blooming. It's beyond the loud trespass of outspoken homage. Don't remark -- least of all -- the fringed shadow oozing from morning boles: evaporating at noon, re-seeping just after. All this mystery larger than mouth can purse. You see? You're looking down to write! You're stealing time from the tree. Try only watching. Try speechlessness.