If the root
of experience is humiliation,
a wound that the world (without sorcery) cannot make good,
what does the root do to hide itself from the full tree?
What is the root of mystery?
What is the difference
between a cry of pain
and a cry of pain,
and how do I pick up
enough sense to come out of the rain?
I shall stand in it this afternoon, letting my cotton T-shirt soak through,
right into my shorts, right down my new white tights
and the rain boots beneath them, like last-minute help,
delighted not to be dissolving, not to be made
of sugar and flour, keeping the dirt off my cheeks,
thinking “This has to be a dream,
I do not know whether I want it to be a dream,
whether I want it to have been a dream.”