On the surface much as he was before the
Dream that brought so many defilements waking
And at which his world became queer and shocking,
In nothing changed much
Save the way he lives and the dread he lives in
Of the heart that knows and the secret words that
Fearful he must listen to, yes, and look at,
Sickening must touch,
Flocking thick winged instruments that at bedtime
Force him to behold the vagina's pink shell
Falsely close and falsely reopen, as well
As
the mock penis-
Surely this is not what he prays to nightly?
No more ought he trust his daylight companions,
Uncouth, dull, coarse, idle, delinquent these ones,
Cupid and Venus.
How he wears his youth's unbecoming belted
Jacket, round his shoulders the armour of age,
Squeezing in his palm a small pen knife whose edge
He fingers often.
Now his eyes are full of a tasteless hunger
And his features heavy with resignation,
Set on lip, cheek, brow
is
the abstract passion
Love cannot soften,
Staring out from windows where death is pregnant
Under damp curls strung on a rotting forehead
Breathing through his mouth like the fish, cold blooded,
That in the flood stand
As
he floats himself over grief and knowledge
After childhood's wrongs have been known, forgiven,
Undiscovered still are the ways to live in
Puberty's wasteland.
