This poem is a figment of my mind--
It doesn't exist--dogs can't eat it, birds
Can't perch on it--these mere mark-sounds unwind
In music notes and rhythms and in words.
And when I die, and if and when these marks
Will disappear, will they have made a place
In all this cosmos any more than larks
Who sing upon the line with sonic grace?
Or will these patterns, more complex than you
And me because the poem requires we
To be, and all mere facts less than the true
This poem is, and more complex, more free,
Be much more real than anything that came
Before and light the cosmos with its flame?