'A boy's love burgeons from a too full heart
'A man's from having too well dined'
Kipling's, alas!, too Indian art
Taught me the latter was more refined.
I'm fat, fifty one, and my only son
Whose bean feast to order were day's work done
At midnight's hour, as if a promise to keep
I myself devour & can not sleep
Tossing and turning, my bed a barque
Back to Ithaca & the Sea wine-dark
Of Agape's Apnea what can I say?
My breath itself its take-away
Prince! 'tis not our being fat or scant of breath
But our Holy Ghost Farther yet to Death...