Heads break, not on real curbstone. or cliffs,

But on must; on to be; at the hand, of a clock;

Those rooky mists we thought were cloudy ifs.

Stumbling on cobbles, we unpocket luck.

It is a curse of a kind on the age we live in

That I, even I, should argue this out of my cave,

That I, lacking philosophy, shamed in religion,

Confess thus, thus deny, thus seek and seek my love.

Worse is knowing I said Yes, in an exuberance,

In good faith Yes, Yes with all well-wishing love,

And now wish No as I save up breath for existence.

No. No. No to the greed I so suffered of.

I have damned and desired historical good weather,

Hamlet with a license, wondering what's next for us.

I want it for everyone, though, this ease together,

Yet fear for it. There are old, old gods against us.

My grandfather did all he could, and my father, to get it.

Do, do. If you want it, you do something about it.

It was a live time, green and windy, going west,

When rivers had no names, and night was nightfall.

Ignoring the wild gods, I turned it into Must,

And wrote laws against myself in the marble capitol.

We must break those laws, though we break our bones.

We meant springing green, never never meant stones.