Contrition
twines me like a snake
Each
time I come upon the wake
Of
your clan,
Undulating
along in agony,
Your
face of stool for mystery:
What
secret hope or knowledge,
Locked
in your hump away from man.
Imbues
you with courage
So
mute and fierce and wan
That,
not demurring nor kicking,
You
go to the house of slaughter?
Can
it be in the forging
Of
your gnarled and crooked horn
You’d
experienced passions far stronger
Than
storms which brim up the Niger?
Perhaps,
the drover’s whip no more
On
your balding mind and crest
Arouses
shocks of ecstasy:
Or
likely the drunken journey
From
desert through grass and forest,
To
the hungry towns by sea
Does
call at least for rest-
But,
will you not first reveal to me,
As
true the long knife must prevail,
The
patience of even your tail?
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