XXXIII.

The Lord Throws Down.

66.
Suffering is such petty pain,
A small bread significant
To none but the baker's analyst,
And me.

This day, this week, this month, this year,
Lived in stupefied anxiety,
Waked in dread, Walked in fear,
Heedless of love or piety.

The small stuff looms,
Its weft bereft of threads,
Mazes are the roooms
That are the dead's
And stark as tombs
In which they lay their heads.

Allow the question, a simple one
Ponderable although unanswerèd,
"What do You want?" What rules do I lack?
Your foot on my neck,
Your fist in the back,
Your club pounding in the head,
What do You want more?
(My Hoyle copy is remainderèd).

I sense my eyes are crystals, cracking
Like the fingerjoints that now are wood,
The brainpan soft in the skull
And Will irresolute, despite the willing blood.

Were I not born, nor lived to cause such pain
To all who know
What planets claim my fate, no--what moons,
That speak the anguish I seem to generate,
Is it not better than to natter
On with stones in my shoes, tacking
Theses to doors that never could
Open, build roofs that let in rain,
Or float on clouds in slit balloons?