Why rise this thing, inchoate mess,
in ragged, ribboned, breathlessness,
this fable dead before its read,
that has no claim to tenderness?
A season spent with languid days
through negligence and envied praise
becomes the song of all that’s wrong,
mines silver where once gold was laid.
Their pools of pearls, their opulence,
the keepers of my hope make dense.
In agony it bends its knees,
prostrates itself in blithe pretense.
No clouded morning waking dream
replaces what can only seem;
I seek in kind what you won’t find—
this hopeless and evasive gleam.