Psalm

No-man kneads us again out of Earth and Loam,

no-man spirits our Dust.

No-man.

Praise to you, No-man.

For love of you

we will flower.

Moving

towards you.

A Nothing

we were, we are, we shall

be still, flowering:

the Nothing-, the

No-man’s-rose.

With

our Pistil soul-bright,

our Stamen heaven-torn,

our Corolla red

with the Violet-Word that we sang

over, O over

the thorn.