no soul has been a victim
since Evangeline—know
you aught of carnality falling
ill back into earth? and sowing
husks of one balladry that used
to kill you every morning?
knowing that each of your
death is each of my life?
and the poets in the trees
you honored at the lake,
and the lovers by the creek
you shrouded to wake?
would you also be there by then?
are you amongst them now?
know you aught of redemption
after borrowed deaths of many suns?
begging even the nameless gods
again and again that no amount
of me ever amounted to you?
wherefore your truth;
your skin worn anew?
if it is too harsh, must i
be the last earth you succumb into?
if it is too much, must i
be the last truth that ails you?
