where last we sang

i live in the house of my imagination, prickly pears

notwithstanding our Judgment; is it you, there, who

stands before the wall cherishing your wares

and those to whom you sell them? in blue

skies the renunciation takes place, it is a futile bid

for legacy, a half-footed half-embrace --

did you think you could hide everything you hid

or was it sullen, moving in its pale face

toward limpid lines of Clarity?

surely you've heard the Waves at noon

sounding the bell, your remonstrance a rarity

among those who come too soon

to realize their debt to themselves

from the bottom of your wishing-well --

*