What is this "I",
this strutting cipher,
shape of cyclone and cyclone's desire,
quick water whorled
and signed in lightning,
sputtering fire?Whose doing is this chattering
funeral of a world?
Whose violence flung
decay into a startled garden
and wound all new born things
in the stinking swaddling sheet of death?O Lord I seek you
at the boundary of my breath,
in birth and death;
but you have bound me
with your grief
and left me as lonely
as a widow in her bed.
© Copyright Tom Baker 2019- 2008