Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A little Roethke for an evening Epidermal Macabre Indelicate is he who loathesThe aspect of his fleshy clothes, --The flying fabric stitched on bone, The vesture of the skeleton, The garment neither fur nor hair, The cloak of evil and despair, The veil long violated by Caresses of the hand and eye. Yet such is my unseemliness: I hate my epidermal dress, The savage blood's obscenity, The rags of my anatomy, And willingly would I dispense With false accouterments of sense, To sleep immodestly, a most Incarnadine and carnal ghost. The Reckoning All profits disappear: the gainOf ease, the hoarded, secret sum; And now grim digits of old pain Return to litter up our home.We hunt the cause of ruin, add, Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn; For all our scratching on the pad, We cannot trace the error down.What we are seeking is a fare One way, a chance to be secure: The lack that keeps us what we are, The penny that usurps the poor. --Theodore Roethke 9:42 p.m. - 2002-12-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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