mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need anymore of that sound.
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.