Simple Sad Serious Things (Part 2)

I am a beginner again.
You can tell because I perform effort.
A brow gets knitted
and my gaze moves downward
and sweeps this way and that.
What's happening inside is
I'm asking for help.
Come now, analogy,
experience, come now
original idea. Hammer them down,
the tangled jungle vines of morning,
the trip wires of two-cups-of-tea moods,
the endless physiological tremor
that is human action.
You can tell
because words haven't come together into paragraphs yet.
That's to say they dance like leaf falls
viewed from inside hearthfire
ashes on the kitchen table.
You can tell
because I'm groping
like a woodpecker tapping the tree
a couple times here and there
and then flitting to another birch
or whatever
because the pull of the xylem and phloem
in the trunk moves to a different rhythm
than that of breath and grunt, the drawn out bass note
of the physiological tremor
that is this walk
which I'll keep together
as a thing only because
I've memorized the land's rise and fall
its breath I hope to feel down my back
chilling me. So I can get over this week
where not a single sentence danced in me.
Because when I'm cold I'm alive,
unaccepting and unquiet, and when I'm cold
my body's fear extends further than the week
to the myths of grandmothers
and the fretful window-worry of future parents
as the kids play in the snow
in the yard.
I've only started to get to the point
because
you can't touch the Kaaba until you've circumambulated
you don't go into the valley till you've scoped it
you don't write the thesis till the argument's cashed out
you can't get the feel of the chill
till you've looked at the death of the vines
in the image I have of East Coker
as Eliot describes it and as I embellish.
The point isn't words.
For once I won't write that way.

Consider: "that all love poetry becomes more edifying if you look for its implicit chain-rattling Promethean rage."