Beauty’s reticence has no alibi,
No longing year-end wish pursued
Through the New Year, no final cryptic interview;
Absence like the shadow has no definition. The lie
Is gently raked, inclined toward a simple quotient, a goal
Known only to fools or Prophets.
Urges toward the froward ascend for yet an hour’s solstice; epithets,
Then, and envy, raw ingratitude in Cain whose sole
Remorse is that he lacks and displeases God,
That he is no longer chosen and therefore set adrift. Apart
He reveres his own creation high above all others in his heart
And so, too, the truth, the one true God.
Stations, then, are forever sealed, the exile plods
Through warnings from the wind flower, hidden flaws within the seed;
When asked, “What ails thee, pilgrim?” Comes the answer, “Basic need.”