The Secret

Nobody knows who one is. Therefore I sought you
to tell you who I was though I didn't know—I keep trying
to prove my connection to the soil I stand on. I can't do that,
yet speak to someone of "la ville de mon coeur"
for at that moment I am only the one speaking.

If reality in all its details were but aspects of a voice
it would not be Language, rather, one would be obligated
to define voice. As in the voice of the rose; the voice
of rue des Messageries. The voice of your continuity in the body of M.

The secret is telling me to write by rote—okay I'm doing that—
until it speaks. Somewhere along the line it started to. It knows my course
though I don't. It would tell me to speak in French if it cared, it
doesn't give a shit—That's it talking now.

I am more powerful than a president; I am a charmed and desperate
poet speaking to everyone.