Til God, (so-called, conveniently mostly) quits
His most delicious sweet singing lung songs
And takes up golf or some dumb-such bullshit,
Will my uncouth hammering heart, unwronged
Fulfill it’s blood-thrum duties without plaint.
The muscle bound by none but it’s unseen
Purpose neck-breakingly accelerates
On some along-for-the-ride fare who keens
Toward vicarious misadventures
And rolls the windows down and breathes it in-
The urban air fouled, the sidewalk cracks, life
(Up through metalled gratings) flowers and wins.
Hear the diastole, feel pressure there,
The rooted spring, the source of circles squared.
