The sodomite spoils the temple
The proselyte goes hindered to the desert.
Belief and economy! The mystic merchant
is dolorous as the sullen child,
or sullen civil society. The twain
meet in a dry gully and contemplate
each other’s particular myths:
Why, says the merchant, all of man
depends on trade, on the fostering
of lusts, for reason, for loneliness
so aching it saves the purse! Sages
drowse in the desert all their lives—
how exult, how meek the confessor
who sold me my house for theirs!
How, says the proselyte, all of thought
is the slander of the body,
the symbol in the atom—Lucretius
damned me, abandoned me to sight!—
and what oils my brain shall oil
the common plan writ in the brain stem.
How much misery is liberty anyhow.
The merchant and the proselyte
undress each other knowing sin
is only what they access overmuch—
the desert repopulates with men—