Let Me Confess

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3 But where shall the blackbird nest, where The lark rise into fragrant space and Where the sedate flight of the heron Register upon receptive souls, souls Neither brittle nor moist but tragically Altered in accordance with the one plan Which no technology will dismiss from our brain Nor experiment second-guess, as if Love of life necessarily called forth The scolding chief of the tribe or the Weeping madonna self-crucified so as to Cast all our suffering into the shade. We are nowhere so carefully possessed of Deadly spirits as among the works of our hands, It may take us years to understand this. Wisdom holds no one to ransom, not the Disobedient child trapped by forces beyond Anyone's control nor the docile beast Patiently in waiting upon a human universe. Here then I hold out among the weeds, Among nettles and bindweed, momentarily Strapped for cash as the bills arrive Burning on my doorstep. The physician Cruises the Mediterranean in sobriety. *