RUNNING ENOCH
I am so deep into despair I can
etch windows with my breath,
can outwatch the owl viewing
carnage below. The oil-pot at
the roadside's edge, burning its
endless fire, emboldens nothing
so much as my envy. I want to
shirk this world and go away:
am tired of heat and tired of
cold, am worn out by the river
and worn out amidst gold.
Nothing so rich as your
watchman would wear,
but rich enough nonetheless.
Enoch! Enoch! Take me up!
-
The trapping pickpocket of
Death still hounds - I have the
loose change enough for fare,
and all the incentive in the world
to go. Nothing would hold me back,
were I to decide : Moravian pestle-pots,
St. Louis jaundice, the grand music halls
of Fond du Lac - yet they pale by
comparison to where I'm bound.
This gloryland has its rivers and
ponds, countrified airs and morning
swans. My bridge is down and open,
I am sure and set to go.
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