Raw, inconceivable and tetch’d, I
Feed time its own rhythms
Cook’d down to palatable mush.
Art becomes moral only by
Concealing its implacable maker’s consumable
Grief in a rage of
Control, any sonnet sounding itself
To make itself, and all
Else vestigial, gaunt, left behind.
Against analysis the distilling, against
History the grudge of language:
Unreadable grass of lawns, cold
Rivers, the querulous curse of
The unfaith’d marriage of word
To bird, and rocks lit
Up by a ravaging sun.