Home at Last

An outburst—hurrah! Home at last!
Wayfarers they sup at the colonel's;
Believing their fates are entwined
To another's. What mischief is borne

By conceit!

Selective disdain – what profit or gain
Is reaped from false modesty's fruits.
Suppose that I fail, suppose on a Wednesday:
I trip to my death wearing my bowling shoes.

To hell with the rest! To hell
With the martyrs! They sing in tones
All broken and barren! An outburst–
Hallelujah, the time it is come
Where angels will sleep with devils
And leave them asleep in the morning.

Afloat at the stars; inhaling, exhaling,
Their chests rising up, rising down.
Upon their awakening, an outburst
Is due and hell will escape from their mouths.