In League With . . .
Drive away the battle-weary heart
as the guilt rises like smoke from a cigarette
into a spring afternoon.
It has ended as bones do with time
in earth, cold, as the last maggot clings.
And pride has expanded your belt
as though it were a fetus, growing, demanding
the best of your nourishment.
Carry this on the knee of your cracked imagination
and dispense with your volumes of hurt
done to you by so many hands.
For your tune is repeating and still your country grows.
Candles and candles to keep alit so your enterprise
of bitterness is warm with stirring.
My eye has overlooked,
and sometimes I ruin my joy
by taking a step on your tiles
so tormented and full of useless fury.
Golden is the calling we were given
but life-determining is the way we sway or twist
to answer it.
(And night is not the end.)