(a confluence with M. Rukeyser and W.S.)
This day all things begun come to ill end.
I smile as I feign my mock surprise.
God turns awry in exile from Himself.
His great, sad eyes are closed. His promise fails.
He mouths His silent, bitter wish and stills
the sighing quiver of a monk's last breath.
So much my conscience whispered in His ear
which none but Heaven, He, and I could hear.
I move. And God becomes a thorny wreath,
a chattel craved and bound by royal wills.
I plot His masque. I parse His holy frail
commodity. I shout : Aha! My Soul!
and force His cry: No more Mythologies!
The fragments fall as God last lifts His hand.