Entelechy

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484

We are there, in this handsome country
Spartans in necklaces
children of war
chairmen of language
Priests of Winter.
I, I, I in hairshirt, posthumous,
wandering the earth like some fucking bum
appealing for clemency
for American compassion
finding none in society
I brace for some coming of expensive cold
my organs sing
and tightly clutch my name

485

Hanging by a foot
a stone moustache
a column of suffering begets
an eclipse
a paper messiah comes from
different directions
blows into town
with a curiass in its suitcase,
the sun
and a black eye.