November Lament

Jacob Colony

Sunday sunset,
five-gallon for a stool
one quarter full of
fouled blood
under extreme duress 

Would the leaves or grass
bend toward me
if they knew what lies buried in me?
my need for pleasure? 

There live in me three things

They escape me
and return haggard
on soft wind
boasting of what they have seen
panting in the sunlight

Their names are:
Functionality of purpose,
Labor of hands or spirit,

Lo! May all ennui,
ev’ry pestilence and
dissipation be left trembling
in a denuded heap!