The sad-eyed
poet, dressed to suffer,
falters at the
seam of death,
his grave-drawn
soul is torn between
a cross of love
to shoulder to the gate,
its granite bride,
the stone-cold touch of earth.
At pause in this
place where his words unravel
their serpentine
elegies of Adam
and fury of the
spinning sun,
his tongue is
caught between two minds,
falls silent
in the face of his last song.
A fretful finger
taps the tune,
nervous in the
pocket of its tomb;
the living nerve
is burned beneath
a wicked and
unworthy sack of skin
greedy for the
wisdom of escape.
