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Here is your inheritance:
to be a person and go on blushing, applauding,
saying "pardon me" without understanding
how it started, or stopping to ask;
believing somebody else knows;
not wanting to be alone.
Esoteric burlesque blossoming in mirrors, paraphernalia,
rainbows, dolorous sombreros, days.
The same presence everywhere. Look for it, it eludes you.
Not wanting to be the only one
with a small black coffin in your heart,
a small black coffin the size of a thumb
with nothing on it but wind.
For now, take this black rock and go on polishing it.
A golden cricket lives in it, listen;
a tiny blue loom.

- Richard Cronshey