In the Holy Purple

In the holy purple of the embryo of thought,
a new ungainly creature starts to grow. Fed by
black and violet – whose flow instills susceptibility
to subtlety – it features signs of promise.
Limbs are wobbly and unfocussed, though:

they want proportion; no locus yet for temperament,
no bone of ideology, no concentration of sufficient
length, no muscular intention has disseminated
strength; no genitals have joined the groin
with lust – no reason to be penitent: no shadow

in its innocence: no pity, grace, chiaroscuro,
or capacity for guilt. Profitable thought must be,
from these, assiduously built. But ah! – look!
Peering into middle distances, its eyes are curious,
uxoriously eager, keen to grope. There’s hope.

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