26

The Times Ordain

 (Brother Rabbit’s Excuse)

Lost things I must forget lest I profane:

forest or desert where a man might grow

his God in solitude; bright moons ago

hymned by lovers and Egyptian seers; light rain

twiddling leaf-lace against sky’s porcelain—

all the old gods’ lost gifts. What debt I owe

aged earth, waned stars, slow time I cannot know

or, knowing, must deny. The times ordain.

Between jet sound-shock, slogan wars and rush

appointments, sense fails: caught, creviced too deep

for thought; apocalypse broods, gathers…. Hush!

Do not risk a real question lest bloodbeat creep

toward meaning. Through ears locked closed, I hear the crush

of atoms in my pillow beneath sleep.