[So long on Tantrum now]

So long on Tantrum now distinction suffers.

      The winding of the wind, the drag

of sun against the puny fleet, and nothing

      left to spare its use to you, Crusoe,

the trophy of another day or year, the last

      one counted, bower by bower.

Graffito, what’s left of the rosemary’s stark

      towers, what’s left of mint, picked to

finish, the winter’s lack of snow yet yielding

      closure, a kind of petulance,

each name owned by every rightful vessel—

      Champion, Angel, Opal, Hero—

you, likewise—

      Idol, Misfit, Foundling, Glutton.

The truth is only half your job, the other

      half is you.

So don’t say ashes, say box. Not burn, but

      born-unto. For fire, submit as before:

field. Start over. Instead of years, yards to

      where she’s not laid but laying. Do

not say fire, fiacre rather, pulled through our

      square, flowers nailed to it,

flamen then for flower. Depth for Debt. Please

      then for priest, as in,

Born unto water, I stay to know my depth. I’ll

      own it, yard laying upon yard.

Give, please, peace for this depth I’m born–unto.