Name it and I’ll hate it, say we,
the least among the rest. Bourgeois?
That’s Bell-Meade. Anglo-Saxon and illiterate
beyond those belly-cut books deprived
of their epistles. Moderns’ modernism?
We plunge into gashes Milton rowed down
begging for water. What strange ecology
is this that sowed salt above the bowers
hoping all the children dry up.
The book of Q thinks Genet sticky-fingered
merely, and queer as lady Plath that
swung her brain cells into chalk.
Confessional? You’re reciting history,
man, the whole of it; none talked
who did not confess their decomposing.
And Gilman’s worm did not turn back
into that pillar we were warned of,
cannibalising the chrysalis, that pack.