GRIEF Poem: When I Had Shaved My Head Completely, by Mike Hackney

It profits us little
to spill no blood at all
amid night birds of envy
and our
pervading desires.

By the end of each daylight
we are all as guilty as the serpent
lying in wait for its prize
no matter what.

Patience bears us little more—
perhaps a bit of virtue.

The virtue is gained
yes

but the people
want dramas and blood:

the child held for ransom
under the wicked burn
of the world.

II.

I too adore violence; and,
when I had shaved my head completely
and those of
a few men who emerged
curiously from their cells

I perused the odd stack of books
(which sat like rapturous treasure
on the wobbly library cart).

They lead me to Ezra Pound
and then dreamily to Ku-to-en.
Stately crows on my window ledge
block out a winter sun.
They bow their heads in sorrow.

My sentence for loving you

too strongly

is 161 days, 161 nights:

time enough to read these books

time enough to cry