i will work like dickinson,
aware of every little thing,
hid from, and yet upon the sun;
as i am, so i will run,
caring nought for anyone
who bars the way i'd like to slink,
or denies my choice of drink.
several lines of doubt i may
yet write, on some cloudy day:
consider these a ray of light;
else, i almost die from spite.
being born in such a world,
where all things seem cruelly curled,
nearly makes me sick of life.
am i shut up, or somehow free,
despite this flesh here caging me?
it used to be, that flesh would meet,
face to face on darkened street --
here i've come, such things to seek,
but you're not there, or else you're meek,
and i remain a lonely freak.
tell me where some comfort is;
tell me where there is a prince;
show me someone, someone, someone,
who knows of truth, and ancient justice,
is unafraid of that word "punish,"
has an air of realm and state --
lives he, or must i him create?
there is a call that rises high
in times like these, a mortal sigh,
that shakes the oldest of the trees:
quercus! your son quirinus bleeds!
quirites! your fathers are in need!
o rome, old liberty's first home,
your tallest child's now a gnome.
and what a gnome, astride all earth,
tallest of all gnomes yet birthed,
yet fragile: made of cheap ceramic,
where once she was a thing volcanic,
capable of fierce eruption,
ever-flowing, self-refluxing:
she's quiet now, who once was busting.
perhaps, perhaps, some bell will toll,
some thunder burst at last, and roll,
and wash away this rotting stain,
as lightning leaves but ash, and rain
blurs that, with all the dusty world,
leaving but a glassy pearl,
perhaps, if it was sandy soil.
