Well, I'm going to read some old poems,
and then some poems that are perhaps still aborning.
This one is called "Saint Francis and the Sow."
Before I go on, can you hear me OK?
Should I lift this up, is that better or worse?
All right.
"Saint Francis and the Sow."
"The bud is the emblem of all things, even
of those things that don't flower,
because everything flowers from within, of self-blessing.
Though sometimes it's necessary to reteach
a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower,
and retell it, in words and in touch,
it is lovely, until it flowers again from within,
of self-blessing.
As Saint Francis put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her, in words
and in touch, blessings of earth on the sow.
And the sow began remembering, all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder
and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine,
down through the great, breakable heart,
to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting
and shuddering, from the 14 teats into the 14
mouths sucking and blowing beneath them,
the long, perfect loveliness of sow."
[APPLAUSE]