First Poem I Ever Wrote

At Carleton College, when I was 20.



Can I mold this kneading soul with mind
until the last savory drop of breath deigns
to lose the grip of life with caring ease?

It seems impossible that covered spirits heal,
the raw, lean edged nerve concealed beneath
a mound of helpless clay.

One begins to loathe the day...
light shining... curving subtly over the earth...
illuminating the sepulcher...

Rather, should the darkness rule?
Darkness that is...the wind that
howls in the night...the wind that takes the breath
away, that steals the light.

Enumerate the reasons one should bleed; to save a Knave,
to help a Queen? Better to lie motionless at the bottom of a stream,
the constant waters caressing life away.