I make the mistake of trying
to control too much,
writing itself being the play
of control and rebellion:
the ink would like to go everywhere,
spread out luxuriously, nonspecifically.
Its master the pen lets out only a fastidious trickle
even though, when writing, the main thing
is just to let it out.
Better too much than none at all.
Then I make the mistake of trying
to control too little—
as if chance will do my work for me,
as if a bunch of infants, left to themselves,
could build a city.
As with a kite, even what seems to go nowhere
can lead somewhere.
It plays on the wind like a gull,
dipping rising flapping flapping.
More music than movement.
It’s fluid because of its rigid structure.
It’s free to play because it’s tied down.
It doesn’t feel perfect, but is.
When it fights other kites, it kills them
by freeing them entirely:
the string cut, their contradictions are resolved,
their tensions laid to rest.
I make the mistake of thinking
I can find the truth without experiment,
create life without death
birth without mess and struggle.
Some days, the wind is weak,
and the kite only flies if I run with it a while.
On others, it leaps into the air lustily,
embracing a great height
challenging the length of string.
The fabric flaps passionately
becoming a buzz,
almost a voice.
The tail, though aerodynamically superfluous,
ripples more calmly
the kite’s raw feelings written
by a more practised hand.
Its words are perfect,
but disappear into the breeze
just before becoming intelligible.