And, stealing, find Such truths as fall from tongues
And burn with sound,
And all of it from secret blood and secret soul on secret ground.
With glee
He sidles forth to write, then run and hide
All week until another try at hide-and-seek
In which I do pretend
That teasing him is not my end.
Yet tease I do and feign to look away,
Or else that secret self will hide all day.
I run and play some simple game,
A mindless leap
Which from sleep summons forth
The bright beast, lurking, whose preserves
And gaming ground? My breath,
My blood, my nerves.
But where in all that stuff does he abide?
In all my rampant seekings, where's he hide?
Behind this ear like gum,
That ear like fat?
Where does this mischief boy
Hatrack his hat?
No use. A hermit he was born
And lives, recluse.
There's nothing for it but I join his ruse, his game,
And let him run at will and make my fame.
On which I put my name and steal his stuff,
And all because I sneezed him forth With sweet creation's snuff.
Did R. B. write that poem, that line, that speech?
No, inner-ape, invisible, did teach.