The Truly Great Soul

​The truly great soul
(That isn’t me) [I know]
Is so broad that
The entire world couldn’t grow

Enough rooms for its
Sparks or enough wings
For its descents or enough
People for its love; kings,

Clamorings (I say, that’s
My stop, that’s what I
Can imagine) [you know your what;
What about your why?]

It meets another river,
It lives another life, its tent
Is everywhere, it is not bound
To any single continent,

(breath) (sigh) it breathes
Upon all generations; its 
Words are always spoken
People speak its words in fits,

In sleep, in rage and in
Love, under bridges, between
The living room and kitchen,
Soon after turning seventeen.

The borders of its life
Rise beyond borders that
Anyone could feel
And in its sleep, at

Dawn, someone murmurs its
Words, a butter-colored glow
Inside a breakfast bowl,
Golden as the molten notes of the oboe.