Fourlegged in Jamestown
And you, my me, our enterprise of being:
biblically-charged and incessant
in those clothes of incandescence,
or was the word read by the genes?
Honey, the scroll is goat’s coat
I shaved by the river rolled on my side,
heavy in the pentecost. Why work?
And so hard, at that: the whispering
of whispers, aghast at hearing
that banging shallow someone.
Oh republic, that shed me out
homeless in shelter that put me out,
bade me quiet and made me shout:
lost lands that grew hands walked about
the slides of Sinai shivering for company
that never rose.