Whitman, grabbing the first copy of “Leaves
of Grass” from the binder, at once begins
to edit. Blue ink from his pen receives
each crossed word with regard, slices it thin
as a sewing needle’s scar to let him
look back later at old choices. Process
reminds him to rejoice, silent anthem
within to the Muse. He’ll never confess
sinning for loving sex and men, writing
of their joy. He’ll welcome Emerson’s praise,
Thoreau’s respectful visit. When fighting
breaks out, he’ll nurse wounded soldiers, embrace
them through their crazed screams for home. He’ll begin
(without knowing it) rhymed lines for Lincoln.
Roger Armbrust
August 3, 2015
