Glaring with baleful eye
he raises an accusing hand,
points with his finger, waggles it,
rememberimg at the last moment
that in doing so he signals
his inner blaming, shaming,
nature too transparently.
He lowers his hand, but not his eyes,
caught on the horned devil
of his own self-condemnation.
He knows right from wrong,
he knows truth as cold hard fact,
not as truth spoken through love,
which he despises as weak compromise.
He says he wants intimacy, but
fears it as an unwelcome intrusion
peircing his cloistered sense of self;
a self that is in reality
only a cast iron pissoir
on a dirty foreign street.
No comments:
Post a Comment