i sing the stars, the body electric.
i sing the supernovae that created my bones, my mind, my misunderstanding.
i sing walt whitman, i sing thoreau, walden pond,
americana, leaves in the fall
[leaves in the grass],
the long white beard of poetry.
i sing the song of the heavens, words, a thousand images.
i sing the summer, the winter, the autumn, the spring,
birth and death and thousands of souls rushing to entropy all at once.
i sing the long white corridors of hospitals
and the blood-dark passages of birth,
the first aching breath and the last words you’ll ever say.
i sing the pain of love, the longing
and the way the ones we love
are always the farthest away from us.
i sing the lightness of air,
the blue morning sky in California,
the way we can always travel west
[go west, young man, go west], our destiny,
and the long wide cold ocean.
i sing the far green country, a silver veil rolled back,
i sing the war songs of every country,
the death rattles of every last person,
the words of gods handed down to us and lost.
i sing the redemption and the day of judgment,
i sing oblivion and darkness and emptiness.
i sing victory and anger and revenge,
i sing humility and hunger and salvation.
i sing the morning and the evening and
the long warm gardenia night filled with murmurs.
