The Anxiety of Perfectable
Love
Nothing can be less
satisfying than an argument
so without rhyme or reason
that all that was meant
disappears into absolute
certainty, that one
plus one is always two, that
every action has a reaction
equal and opposite, and that
what is said is all
there is to say, without
metaphor or midrash: the sun
will always rise, no matter
what the weather, fall
brings down the golden
leaves, though many hover
until the first fresh breezes
of the spring,
and genial smiles play out
for a superficial lover
and his mistress coy as ever,
coil and spring.
Cupid’s lovely arrow never
leaves his quiver
until the rhetoric has sailed
across the doubtful river.
Murder, Scapegoats and
National Interest
Two things so much alike,
like a mirror and its image,
The perfect goats in the
Temple, the sons of Eve,
The nations on either side
the river, until the age
When one grows weary, the
other uncontrollable;
They eye each other warily,
each rolls up his sleeve,
and sets to work, and one
becomes Abel,
the other Cain, one takes the
priest’s red thread,
the other the hangman’s rope
and romps away
into the desert until he
tumbles down a cliff and breaks
apart, scattering into the
darkness until dead,
thus ensuring that the crimson
turns to cream; they say
he now accompanies the
primate to the altar, makes
his bow and is dispatched
with all our sins:
thus over there, on the other
side, they remain
forever hapless slaves, while
here we know the ins
and outs of everything and rule
our own domain.
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