The sweetness in sap
is plenty hot,
it rises slow as steam.
I feel the breath
of my disease
rise
in the same slow way.
I owe a cock (my own?)
to Aesculapius
yet I am not healed.
Mortal coils
are shuffled off
the poets say
with ease or not;
hot or cold
we take our leave
for other worlds
or ways.
Blueprints from the
draftsman’s
hallowed hand
bring on the fearful night
or brilliant light of morn,
bring on phantasms, mist
or music of the spheres.
We take our time
from His or Hitler’s
comings and goings;
we take our time from
eternity, if you please:
iceberg enough
its cold creation
melts
drop by drop
to the world beneath.
Sure of seconds, the atomic clock’s
as out of whack
as Big Ben,
and we stump on, regardless.
We coarse souls.
Ancient ships will
wait in the roads,
taking their time.
Biding a wee bit,
babies will die.
I agree that
every life brings
down the rain,
the rain in buckets
the small rain
the cold rain.
The rain on trees
is warm;
on our sleeping bodies
you and me
I agree
the rain is cold
and comfortless
and so will be.
Together or apart
I agree
the time is short
and not always sweet.
And so will be.
And yet the clay, our clay
alive long since,
changed by the sun
and dried and caked;
two brittle mortal pots
we sit apart,
afraid our love
of being close
will break us both.
