Slim as a nun, I lie along
the margin of a borrowed bed
whose springs are texting through my bones,
Abandon hope. Abandonment –
ecstasy of fall. I gaze
up into the godless dark
as if it might disclose some way
of getting right back, to the start
of that unselfconscious wish
for (old-fashioned diction …) joy.
And dark stares back. True, I’m pissed
again. But must the old alloy
always split along these seams –
is this, then, what incarnation means?