Today one is taking out the garbage of judgments.
They stand in noisy steel bins outside the mind.
It was the clutter, the clatter of others,
The self parsed by the self, that had to go.
And yet it is hard to part with what feels
So familiar, like a second skin
The way a chevalier must have felt
Steeled in comfort astride his horse
Staring at the latest, the villainous harquebusier.
Is it a matter of life and death?
The death of something, yes. Invisible,
Molecular, a spring cleaning in winter,
The smashed and bundled furniture of the spirit
(Gaping at its vacancy) brought to the curb
For the homeless scavengers to pick over
Till the garbage men arrive.
In throwing it out they are what they are,
Free, stinking, and strong,
Whatever Tsarina and her minions think,
Of themselves, and of their own glass Easter eggs.
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