I curse the quartered
genesis of spring
To utter now
the warring word within
My breast, when
time in all his rages winds
A nerve to breed
upon the broken ground
Where no grave’s
womb will sacrifice its seed;
There neither
ghost nor glory should be found
Except by dawn’s
light breaking in your eye.
In crucibles
of enigmatic birth
I trace the flame
from spark to cindered end,
My selves arise
and shed their smoke-robed skin
Then flee like
Moses from the ten-plagued land.
When I who found
no solace in their sleep
Am implicated
by their phratric voice
Whose word was
first creation then death’s call,
The judgment
passed is greater than the sin.
And though it
cost my hoard to free your voice,
I pawn my pennied
thoughts to ransom truth.
