Untitled 27For if the sun sets on me now,let it not be for the tears that I met on life's way.If my language were to leave me, howcan I not leave as well, how can I stay?And all the world grieving leave, meet not the horsemen, not today.The truth is not me rushing out the door,ripping off my clothes and the tangled mess of words,letting loose the little air left in me, yelling no particular thing.The truth is no particular sound, beaten into shapeby my harangued vocal chords or my hasty pen;it is not to bring to fragments into whole and into pieces again,made into a many-spangled being.It is not for better or for worse,nor is it that poet's song, nor philosopher's stone;it is not I nor the other, no, it is not in this verse;not empirical charge, not romantic surge.It is not the virgin, nor is it the whore,It is not what I dreamt up, not in my Freudian joke;not the masses, unbecoming, not less, not more.It is not only the world, the world I think I know.Were it only the knower, but not so just the known,it is not what I have seen, not only what is not shown.The truth is not only my life, or a life lived some,nor is it all, everything, to belong in particular to no one.I'd lie still most-times, after my eyes would waketo the light of the morning sun, and just so, waitto go out to meet it, to let it beat on my face, your face.