I
I was the orphan of the waxbone man—
the one who's chasing deads to please'm
for even paleness of something. I was the child
of the mortal mud—the one who pleased alives
to commit for him his own act of living.
My father cov'ted Me to learn the art of life,
the solemnest gift thou'lt ever have, he said.
But I rejected it, as all I've got from him,
to learn the only sport of art I find
as worship-worthy.
And now it's Me who holds the flame of knowledge
before his skinless body—the bleak memorial
of the windy-blink before, which no-one will recall
since now.
