Let me not to the marriage of true minds
— William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 116”
The unconscious lays its cards
with impediment from you;
impetus of id, its sole objective;
and, when it deals, does, no doubt,
off the bottom of the deck.
The bottom of the sea is where we’re bound;
ship sinking meanwhile, run aground …
Captain! O Captain! you mutter,
guzzling salt straight out of the packet ―
who replies from the corner of his mouth.
The game’s afoot and now we may know
what must be brought into the light,
examined there like a beast’s entrails,
sacrificed for glue.
We sniff our tears,
but until we drink from the fountain
of the geyser driven upward
there will be nothing else further to reveal,
nor can we do except get up,
shuffle out in our jackets
from that premonitory cool
into the heat ― and come back next week.
Spin the roulette wheel …
Double-zero, here I come!
Image of Le Rouge et le Noir,
fought against injustice ―
aces up my sleeve.