Shreds and Patches
Like a fowl’s blame this palsy ghost.
And of its cock-heart decayed.
It picks its luck from worms.  
The little lassos in their oozy, woozy brains,  
the indefatigable brains
crying out as if in a parody of song.
What it tries to do and can’t.
What it wants to be and what it can.
To be made whole.
To be made a man 
Strong, and from a caryatid dark. From its shark pale 
the albescent eyes 
nothing but a rumor
of what has been borrowed from Adam — 
that first philosopher, 
that name philosopher.     
A king of figs. A king of fibs. On this eve 
Of making twigs from a tree
On a white fire, this violence.
For this ghost had been beheaded.
Its feathers sewn from envy.
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