No, lady, the foregoing poem is neither
a riddle nor a rebus. Nothing to be guessed.
When it says, “It has no name,” it means just that.
No, not “grace,” “vision,” “caritas,”
or some exuberant, all-embracing, new,
exhilarating virtue that God and I
have just concocted.
Look, read the thing again, taking it literally.
You are handicapped by thinking of me as having
some eldritch pact with words. Whereas—
groping drop-out from night school,
lifelong at odds with them for their chicanery and despotism—
I consort with words only from sheer loneliness,
as a lifer in solitary might welcome
the companionship of a spider or a cockroach.
No, that is asking too much…