Dover Butch

This cliff-side is true and ruthless and dependable-

What all the pundits say is right: you can dabble

With love, you can plead, but the bitter, etc., isn't lucrative.

The bitter, etc., is borrowed, marriageable. And the waves

Don't sound any more mournful than a woman-

Besides all the perfumed armies are so grumpy and wan

And blotto you'd think they couldn't keep up with their Sophocles

Even at a snail's pace-such dense, ancient sadness.

Yes, faith must be called to, fat with spray and misery,

Though nothing there is crumbling. Sure, I can channel the calm sea

So that the moon is my darling, my orbit, my omphalo-

And yet it's nothing to get rattled by. Try humming at a window.

Such is this children's game, such is this mother's tongue.

Who says my girdle's too tight? My heart is flung.