Saturday, March 27, 2010

Ted Hughes

Is he his own strength?
What is its signature?
Or is he a key, cold feeling
To the fingers of prayer?
He is a prayer-wheel, his heart hums.
His eating is the wind--
Its patient power of appeal.
His footprints assail infinity
With signatures. We are here, we are here.
He is the long waiting for something
To use him for some everything
Having so carefully made him
Of nothing.

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