Brutality, Beneath a Complicated Pact

 

The rootedness of England –

its template sir-miss-madam-ness –
its sense that human nature

is brutality, beneath a complicated pact –

that someone’s always
sitting on your back –

and all that can be done

is to go in: that you must bear
your own unconscionable sin:

no Emerson can tell you otherwise.

Something got me this time over
the Atlantic Ocean – a severance born

of surmise become a certainty – a notion

that millennia of human intercession
have produced a monstrously alluring

darkly polyphonic song –

and that it’s that to which I think
I may have finally discovered I belong.









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