Quandary, that suffering plots itself in time,
old rut where the eyes roll the sun.
Father of all, we can’t do without it,
the burning snarl that binds our gods,
live and gasping, to the loom.
And love is the heddle. Remember L.,
who heaped his unlived hours in glaciers
and slew his children lest the craving touch them;
forgive him though Dante and the sea cannot.
