While burning like the bush you thwart my eyes;
What prophet thought possessed you; what disguise
Did substance press on you, who are a soul,
An angel or a mouth, river of doubt
Pouring within the banks of certainty,
Eating out the soil, then traveling on,
And on, and on—sucking the gush of mud
From underfoot, converting it to stone:
On what plaque of still laws, breaking my head,
Can I now rest, less wanted than your body?
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