Should this catharsis contain some portent,
purport or potential politick;
should it conform to some shape and indent-
ation to be poetic rhetoric?
Could this cleansing be expressed
merely as an extension of a banal being;
could it rise up beyond its black crow’s nest
and still engage in some sombre seeing?
Unerringly, it seems to be forsworn
by freedom: a cold, dispirited chest
belongs to the earth. Insipidly born
verses revel in the remorseful rest.
Soundness and surety belong to death,
as do my silence and shortage of breath.