I have oared and grieved, grieved and oared, treading a religion of fear. A frayed nerve. A train wreck tied to the train of an old idea. Now, Lord, reeling in violent times, I drag these tidal griefs to this gate. I am tired. Deliver me, whatever you are. Help me, you who are never near, hold what I love and grieve, reveal this green evening, myself, rain, drone, evil, greed, as temporary. Granted then gone. Let me rail, revolt, edge out, glove to the grate. I am done waiting like some invalid begging in the nave. Help me divine myself, beside me no Virgil urging me to shift gear, change lane, sing my dirge for the rent, torn world, and love your silence without veering into rage.
It’s like ants and more ants. West, east their little axes hack and tease. Your sins. Your back taxes. This is your Etna, your senate of dread, at the axis of reason, your taxi to hell. You see your past tense— and next? A nest of jittery ties. You’re ill at ease, at sea, almost in- sane. You’ve eaten your saints. You pray to your sins. Even sex is no exit. Ah, you exist.