As a day-old phoenix immersing himself
in the lake he finds immortality
through no ashes (knowing, as he does, the
future as the hunted knows his hunter).
Exaltation at worst is the perhaps
prolonging of an ill-begotten status
quo: so future is devoured by hungry
past like vomit to its dog and all leaves
ground to a nurturing, deadly sod, sons
to so digest and decompose. Do not
think me filthy--I weep for what I do.
And do not find me gluttonous: my teeth
cringe, grit, spitting, endlessly loving their
begottens as we fear them all the more.