: To Circe :
an excerpt by Richard Kenney
Not pig-
Like, quite, nor bleating,
Braying, mewling, really;
Neither, though, thoroughly
Morally:
Not for a life of pure sensation
Per se,
But certainly a little freer of those cleansing agents
Applied to the topsoul
As to a porch stoop
With such Dutch zeal
As leaves all dream red-raw
And smarting. Duty! Horrid,
Over-wrought rat-
Tail file, drawn like a fiddle-
Bow across the faithless
Heartstrings .... How fatal
It'll feel, at the moment of choice,
Or how could we—Jesus!—
How could we breathe? Such joys
Rest As your paw on mine, my sweet cat, my erst-
While sorceress:
History's an open sewer,
Worse:
I miss you, wer-
Whoofed again into the animal,
Liminal
Life of a landstruck sailor man.
