Against Complaint

After the Yoruba Though the amaryllis sags and spills so do those my wishes serve, all along the town. And yes, the new moon, kinked there in night's patch, tugs me so—but I can't reach to right the slant. And though our cat pads past without a tail, some with slinking tails peer one-eyed at the dawn, some with eyes are clawless, some with sparking claws contain no voice with which to sing of foxes gassing in the lane. Round-shouldered pals parade smart shirts, while my broad back supports a scrubby jumper, fawn or taupe. The balding English air their stubble while some headless hero sports a feathered hat. I know a man whose thoroughbred grazes in his porch for want of livery. There are scholars of Kant who can't find Kent on the map, and men of Kent who cannot fathom Kant. We who would polish off a feast have lain late in our beds, our bellies groaning, throats on fire. We who'd drain a vat of wine have drunk our own blood for its sting. Each of us in tatters flaunts one treasured garment flapping in the wind.