I am here now, sixscore pages of gobbledygook that a languorous Aristocrat of Lisbon spat up goutily. Cheery scholastikoi All of a type rescued my mewling corpus, reaffixed a spine And deeded me even a face, the kind chaps. So lay I here upon my softwood rock, stealing glances, Letting the day’s percussive drawer-pulls Lullay my monocle shut. My throat scratches after milk. When one day the incident ray reveals an inviting touch, And my flaps are broadened, spine cracked, Then I realize my calling: for I allow the wildebeest eye the time it needs To drink fully. Its breaths come uncertain. I pass no judgment on the mistakes it will take from me and my maker, Thoughtful of the foibles of readers who need Something external, historical merely to remind themselves Of the present’s unslippable grasp. When next I receive the ray and resolve The image of the pronghorn, my own eye Be moot.