Well poets, we know, take material from other source,
to other poets and borrow or steal or beg other lines.
And this poem begins with two lines
I took directly from the beginning of a poem
by another poet.
I'd never heard of this poet before, except for this poem.
His name is Jacques Crickillon.
All I know is that he's Belgian.
But knowing the generosity of the Belgians,
I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I took these two lines.
So his poem begins thus.
"You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet
and the wine."
And so I used those for the beginning of my poem, which
is called "Litany."
"You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet
and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker and the marsh birds
suddenly in flight.
However you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is no way you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge.
Maybe even the pigeon on the general's head.
But you are not even close to being the field of corn flowers
at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will
show that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep and its boathouse.
It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful
imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing
down an alley, and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon and the trees in the blind woman's teacup.
But don't worry.
I am not the bread or the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife.
Not to mention the crystal goblet, and somehow the wine.
[APPLAUSE]