The seed of Blake
is in my head today,
bursting its skin,
elegant thought reaching
out with tiny roots,
seeking ground within,
Infinity is in love with the productions of time,
says Master William.

I do yoga, I do plough pose, cobra,
I stretch my bones and hear them crack
like twigs under the devil’s boot,
I strain to hear the rhythm
beneath the words I write,
if I could hear the song
of the spheres as they turn
on a beam of light
then I would be like the man
sweeping the interpreter’s parlor,
I would be like Milton finding paradise
or the Queen of Heaven in Glory,
(here maybe I am being too grandiose),
but I keep at it, I do warrior pose, I do crow,
I stand on my head hoping
Blake will take form inside my dark mind
and bend it back like a bow.