A fragment of weak flesh that circles round
Between the sky and the hot crust of hell
I circle because I have found
That magic circles are a useful spell
Against contentment, which comes on by stealth,
Because I have found that from the heaven sun
Can scorch like hell itself,
I end my circle where I had begun.
I put this pen to paper and my verse
Imposes order on my fault described
So that my fault is worse-
Not from condonement but that, double dyed
To rot, it should be treated as the strong,
Obscured with clearness, metaphysical mist,
Yet before very long
From poem back to original I twist.
As Alexander or Mark Antony
Or Coriolanus, whom I most admire,
I mask self-flattery.
And yet however much I may aspire
I stay myself-no perfect king or lover
Or stoic. Even this becomes unreal.
Each tainted with the other
Becomes diseased, both self and self’s ideal.
In sex do I not dither more than either
In verse or pose, does not the turncoat sense
Show itself slicker, lither
In changing sides according to the hints
That hopes give out, or action seems to breathe?
Here is most shade my longing, from the sun
And that hot hell beneath.
My circle’s end is where I have begun.
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