After Reading Robert Lowell
It is the second October of “hope and change,”
my forty-second. Autumn’s vivid leaves,
crisp bits of eye-fire, foliate explosions
of mortal color: Who can tax such splendor?
I gather dusty books in Arlington:
scores of used volumes, poetry, religion;
I start to wonder if all these blocks of paper
are obstacles between my soul and God.
I am stockpiling sins—lust, wrath, and pride:
inveterate private peccancies, the old
fall-bys that make one sink in the muck and mire.
O Distant One, have mercy on me, weak-willed
addict of leisure and rhyme and cyberspace,
who crave the peace of Thy kingdom. Come, abide.