We feel it thrashing in the womb,
already reaching for more room.
Disappointed, son of man?
Now there's a feeling that began,
long before your strained debut,
to play its part defining you .
David Weiss
VAL.DE·GRACE
Where could I find you if not here?
Among faces chipped or worn away
I have looked everywhere for a likeness
And all
nry
sour-sweet days
I will lament and love
George Herbert
that might mend a cleft tongue, a broken wheel.
Such a little is enough for one.
For two: little short of living stone
and a staircase spiralling down.
If
already you've kissed me in a drop of rain
or, as I drew near, turned from me,
I cannot tell. Shadows of too many columns
obscure what has become of me, of you.
Corrugated tin caps the gilded dome.
The iron gates of Val-de-Grace swing open
to close to open again.
Louis as a boy laid the first stone.
Later, soldiers lay in rows, infected, maimed.
Are the rights of man still much the same?
Stop jabbering, speak plainly,
I can hear
