Let Them Not Make Me A Stone

World Is Crazier And More Of It Than We Think, Incorrigibly Plural. I Peel And Portion A Tangerine And Spit The Pips And Feel The Drunkenness Of Things Being Various.

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

Up The Rebels, To Hell With The Pope, And God Save--as You Prefer--the King Or Ireland. The Land Of Scholars And Saints: Scholars And Saints My Eye, The Land Of Ambush, Purblind Manifestoes, Never-ending Complaints

I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill Me With Strength Against Those Who Would Freeze My Humanity, Would Dragoon Me Into A Lethal Automaton Would Make Me A Cog In A Machine, A Thing With One Face, A Thing

The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And Grows Cold, We Cannot Cage The Minute Within Its Nets Of Gold