Amongst the Scholars

			
I have no place amongst the scholars,
Those who cite as creed the words of men.
Those heaving, hollow chests, those quick tongues
That lick and lash and sing their screed.
The world turns from them, and they from it
And turning, ever turning, they spin and twist
And fall, still speaking, still shrieking, still
 
All around it crawls, the shadow of the breath
 
High heaven above, this world below
And I, for my leaping, somewhere between
Lifted on the winds of theses and screeds
Should they heed my yell and scream,
That their talking and their gasping cease, even momentarily,
a second fall I shall feel