The Sorry Christs
Where do the old men sleep in the dead winter
When snow hushes the sound of the buried ground?
I miss their stay in our backyard kiosk,
Where they would burn a faggot fire for warmth
After hunching up the path from the road at dusk.
I used to watch them light a smoke
And talk a maybe word or two, or arm to arm
Gulp down their life in two-buck booze
And rest and wait before again they spoke.
Once one was sick upon the ground. He retched
The drink in him as though his life would ooze
Out of his sick face. His buddy kept munching
On a piece of cheese and watched, like me.
Sometimes they sat in silent council judging
In their monstrous faces those who value
Virtue as a public show of worth. They slept
Upon the wooden benches for the dew
And woke with sullen, stormed, and blistered faces
To smoke. And once I was afraid and wept
A bit to see one lying like a dog among the leaves,
He was so less a man. When I would sometimes pass
They bowed their morning heads and trees bowed too
To listen, but being shy I only smiled
And bowed my head lest they should ask
Me learn a stay of them. I am only
Half a Christ and should they query why
I do not stand upon my rooted love and listen
To their outcast tongues and weep their pity into frozen eyes
My lips would swallow my reply because
I could not lie, nor tell them I was wishing
There were not born such sorry Christs
To bleed a sorry price, that law forbade
The worship of the walking dead and wise who reckon
Purpose but a sound, and life no more than bottle breath,
Rootless as a dandle of sirens in the city night
And loveless as the tired rain that falls,
Drop by solitary drop and wastes itself into a city sewer,
These are such sorry Christs!
Where do the old men go to sleep
When snow hushes the sound of the burial wish
And trees rattle sapless shanks of vacant fright
At the dead winter? Where do the old men go?
Spring now is shouting green for their return one dusk
Where I wait for them near the backyard kiosk.
Perhaps they'll speak to me again.
Perhaps I'll listen . . . .
Where do the old men sleep in the dead winter
When snow hushes the sound of the buried ground?
I miss their stay in our backyard kiosk,
Where they would burn a faggot fire for warmth
After hunching up the path from the road at dusk.
I used to watch them light a smoke
And talk a maybe word or two, or arm to arm
Gulp down their life in two-buck booze
And rest and wait before again they spoke.
Once one was sick upon the ground. He retched
The drink in him as though his life would ooze
Out of his sick face. His buddy kept munching
On a piece of cheese and watched, like me.
Sometimes they sat in silent council judging
In their monstrous faces those who value
Virtue as a public show of worth. They slept
Upon the wooden benches for the dew
And woke with sullen, stormed, and blistered faces
To smoke. And once I was afraid and wept
A bit to see one lying like a dog among the leaves,
He was so less a man. When I would sometimes pass
They bowed their morning heads and trees bowed too
To listen, but being shy I only smiled
And bowed my head lest they should ask
Me learn a stay of them. I am only
Half a Christ and should they query why
I do not stand upon my rooted love and listen
To their outcast tongues and weep their pity into frozen eyes
My lips would swallow my reply because
I could not lie, nor tell them I was wishing
There were not born such sorry Christs
To bleed a sorry price, that law forbade
The worship of the walking dead and wise who reckon
Purpose but a sound, and life no more than bottle breath,
Rootless as a dandle of sirens in the city night
And loveless as the tired rain that falls,
Drop by solitary drop and wastes itself into a city sewer,
These are such sorry Christs!
Where do the old men go to sleep
When snow hushes the sound of the burial wish
And trees rattle sapless shanks of vacant fright
At the dead winter? Where do the old men go?
Spring now is shouting green for their return one dusk
Where I wait for them near the backyard kiosk.
Perhaps they'll speak to me again.
Perhaps I'll listen . . . .