Mazenderan
He sits, he takes his ease
on the veranda, wishing for some brandy.
But, finding himself in
the Land of the Faithful,
he drinks None.
Something stirs him—it
is not the sea, which laps
oddly in the distance like a helpless
child. If he could soften his
transgressions,
the horror of his face,
in some absolving liquid,
would not that be the Abode of Peace?
He spent a time near the Ganges—
this Holy River,
and a furtive moment in its
naked
waters could not erase thirty
years of corruption.
So much for sin.
So much for Catholic redemption.
And he had known two strains of that
absolution:
the holy Vatican,
the golden domes of St. Petersburg;
two blue veins throbbing from the heart.
So much, then too, for the service of blood.
A phantasia of mortal gods—
not one could serve him.
hashish and opium and morphine—
Would they form his
Holy Trinity?
He sits, he takes his ease
on the veranda, wishing for his soul's companion,
But,
finding himself in
the Land of the Living,
he has None.