Portrait of the Artist Underground

In 2063

The roots become him, in their timeless thrall,

In tthe delicate and wormlike

Maybshoots of green

In tthat seem to bind him but which

set him free, loose through the ground.

He has no more need of calculation,

In tlove or money, even

Maybpaltry things

In tlike bread or water; he has all

he wants of endlessly recurring lotus-silence,

which he takes for song, of dark and light,

In tthe lavish shadows, suns

Maybthat drill the rock

In tand liberate the vapor soul,

whatever in the last completes his shining.

He is past redemption, past regret

In tfor petty misdemeanors,

Maybcrimes of passion,

In tcivilized commitments to

those guises which conceal the hungry heart.

His heart is left with only what it loved,

In tand loved entirely,

Maybwoman in

In tone name, the beautiful

redoublings, words he gardened into silence,

which was his last shrine, his Bo tree, blooming

In tin the soil today, its

Maybpetal flowers

In tflimsy and delicious on

his lips and eyelids, palms, the dirt, the wetness

that confirms this world, that speaks for everything

In tnow quick and running, while

Maybhe lords it

In tover, in the Lord-won air,

all men and women in the selfsame stare.