Standing on a promontory reeling,
Ever unreeling Whitmans from myself,
The world cinders with flames licking, peeling:
The crust of what's Real burning in itself.
Trees, cityscapes, flying birds; and grass blades
Twix my toes. I would rather burn than be.
Enough of this mind of mine which, souls, shades.
Let's ashing unreal as far as I see!
Let's ashing in being turn to burning
And in ashing give birth to misery!
...
Ah ... Emerson, to you I'm returning...
All is now Glorious, not fiery.
"Remember, young man, when demons impart:
Up Again, Old Heart. Up Again, Old Heart!!"
