The heavy water of Ezra Pound
subsuming the human tale
to his querulous high-pitch creel,
transmuted suddenly into profound
perilous melody. The charismatic
author, shaken by acidic
lye. Rattled to quick
bones – John Berryman at sick
bay (delirium tremendum, guy)
shriven to the marrow.
The prof who would harrow
Hell must round up his own high
insolence. But personality,
like poetry, is excess
on the History Express –
a bit gratuitous (to a degree);
won’t fold logically into place
aboard the freight car
of any village explainer.
She’s obstinate. You’re a disgrace.
Whence cometh all authority?
Thrones crumble, powers
tremble – the hour’s
getting late. Some mild futurity
yodels an octave through a vise...
the bird’s a turtledove.
Love’s key to the sky-trove –
exalting the low, humbling the wise.