CHRIST

Christ, I’m tired of trucks, whose rumblings

through the night, shake this gilded building’s

withered seams and waste my dreams with wakings

What they blight-carry-cart cannot

immortality, nor will their headlights’ beam

dip the moment’s flashing dream of seem

to reality.  You doubt the cargo too?

Is it milk?  Sloshing gigantic-new

within the glass-lined-udder, mother-true

finally, milk?  Forever?  No. . . nor wine.  Bread?

Risen high enough to bake?  White-bland, dead

enough to eat?  Safe?  . . . Once awake, we dread

each night-lawful load, that loaded, brakes

the balanced rhythms, Yin to Yang, and wakes

no toll of joy enlightened listening fakes.