When I sing I hear my father's voice.
This mirror of the throat, incongruous
To that in which I shave and note the choice
Of ties and spots that speak of torturous
Smutching, maculated beauty, piebald
Memories, whatever dappled things are called.
And yet in every businessman I see
A feral face, the chink and champ of money.
Fearsome, foolish, all their father's sons
Have all the tricks that one could most admire,
Six polished bullets peeping through their guns,
They pass along like buckets at a fire,
Man to man in combat, eye-to-eye, and toe
To toe. Yet I stand ignorant. In prayer
I cannot mouth the child-words which trip
Uneasily across my teeth; my lip
Will not perform the murmurs or prepare.
The cartilige is thin, the pinnings chipped.
This font before me is Narcissus' mirror:
Its water ebbs and dries no more the dearer
On the head than heart, though I feel stripped.
My heart is full, and was! since I was dipped.
