The maker is blessed, though babble be the measure
of the necessary wood, that matter, the mind’s muttering
sounds, μὺ μῦ, a hum, a moan, a moon, the myth a mouth
is, making murmur into the intricate dust of the moth’s
fragile wing, muons & other charms, museums & music,
a syllable in the chaos, & how can it be what is, Par-
menides & Pythagoras, an is and is-not, & a letter that
might be a god, a god in the old sense, in which an elm
leaf is also a god, & so is a thief, &
blessed is the maker, though mumbling be the measure
of the inevitable self, begun when a letter begins, or just after,
a sound being no letter until suddenly it is, who made that happen?—
a mother did, or a memory—or Memory—mother of us all,
us blessed makers, making of ourselves the mouth that births us.