Hard on me
try though I might to make them so,
despite my faults.
Fought, have I,
the very lie of the stars to only pass them in sandy fingers through.
And what, dear Anthony, has such work profited men like us,
but hard and being-hard?
For all these years of many years
leave me no more convinced
these icy cavern walls
and needled oaken floors
be better than any other
No, only ravenous now for more than locusts and wild honey
and beetles-dung and colors-tan and seasons-sun and wadis-dry
and wagons-pass with wares beyond mere gold and spice
and distant letter to dumb and listless kings –
ravenous I. Indeed, so ravenous.
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”