I think I will do nothing for a long time, 
except listen. Listen and rest 
my head on the noise of familiars. 
Accrue what I hear unto myself 
and let the pitter patter, 
the birdy chatter, the kokoro of the core, 
or the ta Dum, ta Dum ta…
accumulate in me. 
How Hopkins does it, 
hold us captive—I cannot tell—.
Or how Pessoa makes us 
forget how to spell…
Today I felt like a failure, 
a harangue bird, whose calls jolt 
like a doorbell, or wear 
like a herringbone coat in summer. 
My malarkey is no more. 
No mas talky talky por mio. 
For I know failure well. 
I live in her house and make her bed. 
Serve her tea and toast 
and sweep up her mess—.
You can say she’s harsh, 
but she’s also a kind master, 
whispering the infinite 
in my ear when I choose to listen.
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