First New Heresy

For one poet, it is the dirt-caked steel
Of a shovel's blade
Dragging the rubble away
To expose a still-wriggling heart
To the oxygen and sun.

For this poet is bringing truths
Up from the inner nebulae,
She knows the stars the mole knows.

For another poet--this poet
It is remembering to remember
The vast night-beaded gulfs
Of soul, the hovering truths
That flit and bite and sing
In the ears of one near to sleep.

And I almost forgot, my words
Taken into my eyes, a replacing
Of sound by light, of stillness
By motion, of the tangible craft
With ephemeral arts.

Here, I am returning.
The written word will be the last to die.
Reality is not digital,
An atom is not a pixel.
Meaning's depths cannot be compressed.