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.