The Book of Disquiet, after Plath, Home, Apr ’20

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. 

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