Wherever went the wild wind blows
It goes, it goes, it goes.
And bluster blown
Bent so low,
With sting of sin alone.
To post-mend by wounding,
By bleeding out the sour juices
Of bitter wrath and gall.
Here we taste the last trouble of man;
The cup of all the world.
We file on, subscribed by tact,
Entering on our parents back.
One by one, our lips sip
and taste the whip
and drip the waste once draught
By whom it’s taught—
Our fathers, too, sought a better drink,
But winked away by the same things we wink
And think aren’t convincing,
(But we’re all itching).
So we subscribe,
And find the bitter drink ours still,
And further, we must will the cup
and thank the world for what it brings us.
We drink and smile, while
The world with us, wonders why
we like the taste. The whole remains bleeding—
But we’re healing. So rich is this thickness
It’s bitter and white—it covers our lips and
Our spiteful tongue—This is what we wink for, and so
We file on.
In the quiet of a hill top, far from the clip clop,
And buzzing of mouths, the sows,
Find filling munching and crunching and smiling at him
Filing on. He squeezes a cent
Clenched between fingers like teeth,
And he listens like he’s never heard anything—
A small horn is blown by a passing breeze—a tiny bird?
The optimist sings of better things.
Each looks—the hills, the rocks, the trees—
All familiar sings of better things.
But the ocean deep, it keeps, it knows, it groans,
It goes it goes it goes.
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