Between love’s power-stroke and the gesture of the body
The self, proud engineer, distorts with cams the force
Of the careering heart. Ungoverned thrust of steady
Energy goes mad to feel its freight turned fell
And all its fabric jangling horror like a bell
Rung backward changing in a telling of remorse.
Pride makes a private lust turned trade and made for profit:
Who speaks of Man makes promises to love all men
And lies from the heart. We are too small and all unfit
To love what God alone loves. None but packs his soul
Off whoring after gain, swearing to bring back whole
And rich to serve his lover the more lovelier then.
Like dung that the sparrow fritters for the whole grain
The world is. Find you out some tempered men to keep
And let the cock climb, plume, crow. Mornings rise the same
For anchorite and whore, the dunghills stink of dung
Till God’s next time and setpiece start hell like a bung
To let the flume burst, slake, clean, drown the old Adam deep.
Leave a Reply