The oracle is bored, finally, of the future
Ablution in the cold water of the spring
Autopsy of the victim, the signature
In the disposition of the organs, fate’s writing.
The wisecracks from all the golden codgers on the wall
The epsilon, the laurel wand,
moving down the hall
to the chamber where you get your meds and electroshock.
So little and so much makes a poet
to whom the gods have decided to souffle their lies.
Just as the city’s sack is found where nobody knows it
In the spilled guts of the sacrificed ram.
Oh Popeye when you play upon your guitar
Do you play the things that will be or that are?
She sees ambiguity shaped by ambiguity
and that wisdom is hidden in a children’s joke
or in some stray, scrawled obscenity
in a jakes, or toted in a poke.
To pose riddles and not ever guess her own
Has turned her voice into a frog’s voice,
her
heart into a stone.
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