soon realizes that her ego
its height and architecture
are borrowed, are the combined efforts
of everyone who has ever been a part
of this new kind of religion.
her will, it can't, it doesn't,
who are you to say it does?
what is light, what is future, what is fear
without a little sugar to rim the glass?
and she says,
i will i will i will,
all like that, one big rush.
elementary, my dear; the dreaming
of the fools as they rush!
the screaming of the tiny, broken bodies
and the slick seeping of their skin.
whose ego is it now, sirrah?
whose feet are creeping now,
a bannister on their own of path-breaking
and trend-making, whose red lips
are you seeking now:
her architecture doesn't bend down to you here, now,
her arches and her columns and her curves
are made of sterner stuff, sturdier stone,
wrapped in quotation,
mired in imitation, the strain
of development and voice.