in cosmic warp and yaw;
nor is the Lord in the still small voice
of conscience, prophecy, of assembled
worshippers, of scriptures, properties, law,
or the rat-trap psychology of choice—
but in heaven-spent surrender. Tremble—
What aileth thee, O thou sea . . . ?
What aileth thee, O sea; what sinks in you
like cold? What thin black fingers draw across
the reeds of your slackening longitudes
like fate? What do you vomit on your shores
like ink in glistening burls, your dull words
moaned thick from the pit of your poets’ nightmares?
Do unfathomed dead mock digestion, hurled
from tide to tide with algae in their hair?
Surely you are greater than rotten men,
O sea—those bloated floats of flesh drooling
and defecating in their inventions
while the revolving moon makes you her fool
and the superstitious, globe-eyed squid
gulp globs of glutton-pumped oil like jugs of Id.
Psalm 115
Their idols are silver and gold, the work of men’s hands.
Please, I need a sweet deal, want something real,
an automobile I can feel, steel wheels
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