A needy god

The haste of it when poison adulterate
grew legs, two legs upon the perch
over this gasping sea of people
who want to breathe but need to rest.
They are the late, the meridian,
a number of oiled masses all the same
in their hush, in their somatic gather.
When does a body grow itself a mind?
Or a father his fathering, where lurches
his beak into the hole in the ground
perspiring a kernel one day made human.
How do they congregate in the nervous shade
of hunger, in the intellect of weather,
who like me pardons them their wastes?
They grow, almost by intent, somehow
likened to the human regent whose foul
yearn reaches through each salting duct
into a ventricle of blood which hugs
so tightly each wall, tightly enough
to burst through yapping in the world rough.
They shuffle in the poison beneath me
in the basin all together in the strange
pulpit long enough for a private touch
but short, too short for their very much.
A human, and a human, nearly countless,
each head dust, each groin a fountain,
inclined toward my home and greedy for my gold
yet sweet, when young, slim, hunched, and old.
I will keep them, though I cannot know them,
would rather bury them than have them sold.


A note to any readers. I italicise poems in the first person, since it is never me speaking, nor a fictitious representation wholly resembling me. The inanimate or mythical identity deserves a voice, and I will give that voice credit. Though I could quote the whole poem, that would be tacky, wouldn’t it?


~ by Jeremy on July 15, 2010.

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