Often upon the wilted rose, I
hang toward earth and swing and sway,
fold my arms in feigned irreverence,
furtively murmuring prayers I know;
So soon it seems our lives unfold
So soon we see in doubtful reverence;
We chomp on this our undernourished day,
pleading for just one quiet afternoon.
Heavy with the weight of foot-pressed grape -
We glare blood-eyed and thoughtless yelp
Of every unsuppressed, disreputable tale
On which we squint and contemplate
Ourselves, our world and our soul-isle;
Alone and beached, our stare dead-eyed
sucking air like a spectacular washed-up whale:
Between each breath our secret prayer to die.
Our world is clinched between the structured
And the free; both giddy and forlorn.
I have nibbled the imprecatory psalm
Tossed and thrown, smiling and wave-worn.