I Tell You

How can I explain
the colour of the leaves?
And the waterfall voices
of fire-darting birds
how can I suggest?
How can I even know?
What the eye perceives
(shaped and tested, shaped and guessed
by the meddling brain)
is not known as true
by the dull cast of words,
nor what the ear receives,
music, or the flow
of song, simpleton voices
flung in the air, that sink
lost deep in us – these things,
a leaf, a bird that sings,
are not felt in words:
only blood burns so.
It is only blood –
the body’s drink, the body’s food –
that tells us what we knew
in a sense – but has it true.
How can I explain
the colour of the leaves?
And the waterfall voices
of fire-darting birds
how can I suggest?
How can I even know?
Words are not the test.
Only blood in the vein,
body’s food and drink,
fire flooding the vein,
brings the meaning through,
wild beautiful things –
a leaf, a bird that sings –
and has them bold and true:
only blood in the vein
burning, as I think
of you, of you, of you.