[So long on Tantrum now]
So long on Tantrum now distinction suffers.
The winding of the wind, the drag
of sun against the puny fleet, and nothing
left to spare its use to you, Crusoe,
the trophy of another day or year, the last
one counted, bower by bower.
Graffito, what’s left of the rosemary’s stark
towers, what’s left of mint, picked to
finish, the winter’s lack of snow yet yielding
closure, a kind of petulance,
each name owned by every rightful vessel—
Champion, Angel, Opal, Hero—
you, likewise—
Idol, Misfit, Foundling, Glutton.
The truth is only half your job, the other
half is you.
So don’t say ashes, say box. Not burn, but
born-unto. For fire, submit as before:
field. Start over. Instead of years, yards to
where she’s not laid but laying. Do
not say fire, fiacre rather, pulled through our
square, flowers nailed to it,
flamen then for flower. Depth for Debt. Please
then for priest, as in,
Born unto water, I stay to know my depth. I’ll
own it, yard laying upon yard.
Give, please, peace for this depth I’m born–unto. 