The light around is full and warm me
like Picasso’s blue bastard, the marriage of presumption
and truth annulled. Cry, self! and strike
Daddy is not here, hurt him.
No, calm. No, no, calm.
No, calm. Peace no calm, calm.
I came into myself and found I was not there.
The door off its hinges twenty years hence
and the worn wood splintered where a man’s hand
had rapped and bled.
And I remember what I thought then
was the beating of my heart and its
assurance but all along it had whistled
a thin dead thing,
thinking it-self the mind and molecule of
what the thunder on the doorstep was struggling to
say. I thought I was
but what was is still and I am here no more.
But peace, peace, to the favored
he sings. But isn’t there favor unsung? but sing.
I saw the stove on, I took my hand, I
laid it down. Shouldn’t I cry? The bubbling
flesh has the aspect of being wronged.