Limits -Of- My Poetry Poem by James McLain

Limits even there are
'Limits'
Of my poetry.
Where all the streets must
scramble inside with laying down in the sun.
There must be one (which, I am not sure) The date
for the last time Without guessing it.
The pledge of that one.
Which fixes as it advances omnipotent laws,
Untalented by a secrecy
and a constant balance for all the dead, dreams,
and forms in the texture of this life beyond
even the next, why more so they make claim too.
There are limits with all the things and a measurement
and last there and nothing more and are is no time
of it to fit within all memory.
Whom then will indicate to us,
with which in this house Us without the knowledge,
said l' good-bye to all to none we have seen?
By the incipient window of dread from the east
the night is withdrawn so they say.
And among the piled up books which throw off irregular
'Light' - religion sleeps on the weak table.
There must be one which I will never read.
There is in the south more used a door,
with its ballot boxes of cement and planted pines, none
may touch with out the need for greed.
Which is already interdict at my entry, Inaccessible,
as in a Photograph that tells.
There is a door that you closed yourselves for always,
and a certain mirror awaits you in vain your comming;
With you the crossroads seem large open,
My observation of you, for you, for-facts blind face,
is Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing
but the truth so help you 'God'.
Under penalty of perjury my soul once yours is gone.
There is among all your memories the one.
What was now lost beyond one recalls inside each hand.
You will be seen to go down to this fountain neither
by the white sun nor by the yellow moon.
You will never
begin again by what a young Persian 'Said' it all languages
woven with Rugs, birds and pinks, when, in laying down her sun,
before the light disperses, flowing roses soft with cedar trees.
I wish only for you a wish to give you words
to the unforgettable things.
And the Mississippi regularly overflowing and the lake to the east,
always full the 'Guf' You see.

They are all the cuts I loved by, forgotten by; Space, time,
emotion and my passion; poetry is leaving me now.