And this is called "what manner of man"
and I think this is a question that people ought to ask more.
If I am not singing to myself to whom then?
Each sound, each word is a way of wondering
that first brushed against me in the hills
when I was an unshorn shepherd boy.
Each star that watched my watching then
was a mouth that would not speak.
What is a man?
What am I?
Even when I am dancing now, I am dancing myself on
to the tongue of heaven, hoping to move into some sure answer
from the Lord.
How can this David love himself?
Be loved, I am dancing and spinning now.
If he stands in the tents of history, bloody skull in one
hand, harp in the other.