“Quit the Place”
Quit the place, then; test fresher waters. What bridge
Is not worth burning if in the touch—the match
To timbers—means a turning back is no longer fair? The latch,
No longer there, is permanently disfigured,
a threshold bled of overweening privilege
In false familiarity where the home and hearth no longer bar abuse in sacrilege.
Raise the spectre, then, of shame of arbitrary schisms
in sacred shibboleths within that patch
Immortal wonders from without through to lethal exposure
to the elements and rabid demons that scratch
And mar the surface of all that flesh and cartilage.
Bone and sinew must attend before the altars of precaution’s dusk
That presage fear and trembling at every fleeting dawn. Midnight’s
Inky vision fully hastens to its coming noon
As does the glory of the moon
Presume the presence of its sun. If certitude is trust,
No flightless blight survives beyond its sightless night.