A Poem Is A Monastery

I retreat to the monastery
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of calm tolerance
a face of condescending humility
a soundproof face so what’s inside, the cataclysm within the monk
will remain unheard by the world
of woes and victories, to which I am
as neutral and cool and moist
as a monastery wall
with my face of words
printed on water
printed on paper.

I live in the monastery
that is the poem:
It is silent in here, it is still
(The writing of a poem
an onslaught, the decision to leave it all behind and join the monastery
an onslaught too, but;)
in here the battles are all over
in here we just walk around on the battlefield
and collect our dead
and collect the dead of our enemies
and we feast on all these, so we can
live within the poem,
and die within the poem.

I die in the monastery
that is the poem:
They undress me in voluptuous silence
They rub all over my body; oil
and ointments, they wash me with their delicate hands,
they gaze upon all the places
they know they really shouldn’t,
they gather wood for me, a forest for me, for me only,
lay me on the softly on the pile
and when it is time burn me
with the fire burning within them,
fools, they never checked my pulse—
it starts only now, though, burning within the monastery
that is the poem.
I have never felt
more alive.

And then I depart the monastery
that is the poem
in an urn
and when the urn is broken
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it which I wrote
it gives another handful of me to another wind
when it is out of me, it adds to me
until it runs out of letters, which it never does.

I enter the monastery that is the poem
a monk with twenty-eight teeth
I exit the monastery that is the poem
the world itself.