Out of the furnace of
my forty-year voyage,
I can tell tales of love,
weave yarns of lions,
tigers, bears, birds above—

but I, ethereal-minded,
prefer the bare blue sky,
stark, mad, cloud-binded,
philosophy the reason why—
this bird in my house, landed—

that God both is and isn't,
original sides a big "kind of,"
that God both did & didn't,
back again to flesh & love,
& what you should, shouldn't—

that's it, the final tale,
the kicker that I get it,
but how you win or fail,
what to grasp and sweat it,
is still a furnace, past tales—