(A Song) To Aunt Hagar

[joel]

It isn’t time to cry— with luxury
of sad bereavement over puddles long
dried up, no unclaimed moments pause nor wait
in earth-for-heaven gilded parlors where
oases rise triumphant greenery
like rain-for-teary-forest jungles wild—
This wilderness, my wilderness, is not
medicinal and hopeful; barren, hot,
with wind and spirit left unreconciled—
with endlessness of naught for scenery—
this wilderness, my wilderness, is bare
and plain, abortive, stillborn. Contemplate
survival here: no lamentation song
will use my breath where death wills usury.