Aug 272011
 

Some say heaven is a rest,
Bright clouds can close out light;
But I differ with that crowd
And contend my midnight's best.
All men are dust and must pluck their theme
From passing circumstance---
All that agony but a dying dream
Unless it make a farmhand dance.

The dervish and his spinning lash,
His tongue twisted in trance,
Repeats his antic rant before
God's whirling face.
Loveliness unbridled bore
No such look as that;
When heaven claps its bony wings
Individuation is forgot.

But unpopulated heaven,
Bare sky among blank fronds,
Floods my rebel keel from even---
Sudden with intemperate blood.
Robbed of vision I can feel
No palpable delight,
But stark hands that catch at escaping heels
Clasping in the night.

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