Oft desire I doughty deeds, dire dealings with demons enough
to fuel a furnace with fiery fumes, forging fragile, fragrant folly–
A lover’s lance, long and lithe, lunging out from love’s lean loss
to slip sidelong into the slobbering abyss of sympathy’s sorrow.
Worthy, wonder-working weapon, whisp’ring words of weal:
“Repent, return, release. Relish not renown nor respect but only rest.
Today teeters tenderly over Thomas’s tomb; tomorrow totters also.”