If I should sing

 this off-pitched letter

 into the immortality of my here

 and plunder my meaning

 for order and truth in a place cast away.

If I should answer

 my own vision of a latter better

 that shimmies away into rank line

 and cadence of guttural groan.

If I could hoist like a dancer

 the bulk of my worry-stone

 onto the airs of a careless day

 with concern only for essence, not sign,

 and watch these troubles dissapear.

If and here and only if

these sounds could be fluid and broken, unstiff.