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If the outcome lies before me as I prayed it would,
Why does it coat my throat in such a cloying key
As though so much of it were sea weed flown by me
In diametric ebbing, tides of blood.
These legal contracts with the Diety
Arbitrated in the chambers of the heart
And pleaded on the pleats of knees by night,
With demons witnessing each brassbound clause,
Their own claws deep within the softer tissues,
Tearing at the chances, greasing fates, skids
That slide into conclusions, and include
Head aches even aspirin can't occlude—
Are butter to my oval crustless bread,
Are salve to all the pangs despite their tang,
The pin of doubt that taps across my teeth
And keeps the name of action lost, or else
Depicts a rumbled, rutful, muck terrain,
A pudding-life of honest indecision.
The verb in all its moods denotes a yen
Of wishing for abundance among men.
Is it Holy Rood
Or Holly Wood
I seek;
Is it decent Good
Or screaming nude
Whose beak
Prods on, its crude
Need as sharp as needs for food.
God, this flat existence needs a compass,
An ordnance map, a watch, a stake in sand
Denoting place (and time under the sun).
It needs, I need, is there no end of wanting?
I have the seal of angels on the bond
And seek protection for my progeny,
And luck, I ferret luck from mines of clay
And pine for formulas when none is evident;
I hate the symbols of humanity
And want them all pounced into gold dust motes
Hope eats at moldings worse than flanks of mire;
The writing flames on every wall above them
I love, I wait, I wish, what elegant derision
Stop watching me; protect me; what do I want ——
The angel guarding me is sick to death:
How fervently I yearn to nurse his wings
And toss the cramp perverse to holy winds
In chants Gregorian, in verse inverted,
I would be good at that: draw up the forms
And let me sign on to your caravan,
Keeping cats as you would keep a man.
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