SOME HOURS WE SING AND MUST MAKE MERRY THERE

Some hours we sing, and must make merry there,
Some hours we stare the tides and bones of man
And chase off fevered feelings to dark air:
Some hours we do the best, and best is all we can -
So who are you to judge me on my dallied tune,
Who are you to shape me to your vision’s world ?
I’ll die - and when I do it’ll not be soon -
But when the pot - and only then- is fin’lly hurled.

And then the hours will play out their light,
Then God’s wish will bend and take what’s true,
Then - only then - will reckoning be made of the fight
And all the hours I lived be counted through :
For I am nothing - but nothings live and die -
And though a nothing, I’ll shriek out my own cry.

2/3/99