Lay the Fennel On

Suffering’s only sent to lead us on,

Its cygnets niggered, their procession long—

Littering like leopards, languoring dark—

A tyranny of trumpeting necks—gone.

When he purposes to accomplish work,

The author bullets pages, bleeding stark

The field where once alight, the purpose shone;

With congealed dusk, he disembarks the lark.

Aflight, blotting crosses in revision

Pin with iron notes to the page their song.

How full of love is each wound in its mark—

Shrill, shrill is my cry, “Lay the fennel on.”