wastrel --

abutted by the dock the boat surges

buoyed by quiet waves

and ringulets of foam -- fish

dart quickly in and over

the water -- it is a seagreen

Sprite here

to share with us Her Quietus -- Why

have these

cousins of Ours come

to Carry us Away? Is it

in Skulls

and Sinews that we Survive?

this barren Thought, this

Sparking

of light; Vision; all that we Inherit

in this, Our

Kindness, our Plenitude -- We

have Suffered

with Intent -- we back away

into the Night as

it becomes Apparent we long

for higher things

than we can Handle -- ratcheted

down

cursing our History we bleed silently

with hardened

Postures of supine imagining -- What

voices ring

through

us awaiting

Kings and Queens to welcome

us Home

to this, our Underground Archive

of unread

books and inlaid Purpose? -- (Can

you attain

the freedom of your fears? Is

this the next

Apocalypse, the one that breaks

quietly in wet cheeks and hollow eyes

yearning

for a kiss?) Heatgrown sap

understands our Hearth, there

where We

hang the hanging man with his own rope; We

are blisters

of an unknown War; we will frag the Sergeant

if Necessary -- All our bullets

aim for some fleshed mark between the jungle vines, the

flushed and solemn desert, the

longing oceanic tides; our Mode is Fire, lapse,

reload, remit

our Ugly sins

while we adamantly oppose

a Seizure

of hostilities -- What

math have You, you

who Once lit

fire to the backwoods on a whim, the

hungering

of a knight--errant

surrendering his Arms for a pouch

of tobacco?