ASong of Myself, by Melvin Tolson

A sponge,
The mind
Soaks in
The kind
Of stuff
That fate's
Milieu
Dictates.

Jesus,
Mozart,
Shakespeare,
Descartes,
Lenin,
Chladni.
Have lodged
With me.

I snatch
From hooks
The meat
Of Books,
I seek
Frontiers,
Not worlds
On biers.

I harbor
One fear,
if death
Crouch near:
Does my
Creed span
The Gulf
Of Man?

And when
I go
In calm
Or blow
From mice
And men,
Selah!
What . . . then?