A Lord of Will

I am not a lord of will, I cannot
Bend my spirit back and bolt it by the throat,
Shaking copper coins and mysterious seeds from its mantle,
Nor do I wander the crags when the foam spurges the rocks and watch
The barbarians shake their spears.

But I cannot even say, "Be
A thing of pleasure, ring choir bells until heavenly sentiments
Rupture ambrosial dew, dropping into statutes
Of ecstatic humanity,"

Or even just let it rock itself, when the ice
Makes her incursions against the wind,
Into warm oblivion.

No, the will is not a fierce Scythian king beating me with barbed whip
That catches on and flays tatters of bloody skin,
— Just a breath carrying that odor that makes the eyes droop.