The prosperous and limping language
Poor him has ten beers and a theory.
The howling wilderness solved us true,
admired in the mixture of limbs
and language (the protein of thought)
mucked in Greek ruins where tincture
braced every whore for her evening.
A boy is a decade—a man three,
a dead relation to prosperity.
The timid mire of being a body
wrought a consolation of philosophy
but none of its male Athenians
who built and broke our century.
What, from here, does the youth
celebrate if not his navel cleaved?