This stone is taken to my head to crack it,
The way it blasts the land and splits the loam
Between hard hands. A song and solid moan
Announce the woe among the solid pits of panic.
This was a child: his love and chastity betrayed
With cold and writhing feet, itching scratches
At his face, inane mechanic whims and dead patches
Of mettled, muddy earth perfumed with a tired tirade.
No man could put back together these scraps of rust,
The wheels of ridged politics concerning fixed ideals.
The Manor of Religion, acres, the salted earth – are meals
For starving diplomats and suited men with coats of dust.
The idiot man will sit up and scream
To call the hour in irrational thirteens.
