There is a Limbo: poets
its truth though lack the word
while theologians have concurred
to map it on the rim of Hell.
There are the seeds that
in wombs unfit for birth;
grown to inure a fallow earth
two though veiled to me are known:
Clusters to cunning brain
and drumming heart; ears hark,
feet start, hands grasp, eyes to hear near dark
unseal, still sealed how named how sexed.
My womb-spritesí tenor
in their dance
is theme particular:
"All quiddified all selved we are
chromosomatic - how by chance?"
Next may seer see like
the cast on Limboís strand
flaming from whom their angels stand
as justicers to each stopped cry.
Those are the silent
births men chose
should gape in vain for breath;
of them unstrung but not by death
undone the rooftops wait disclose.
Those are the hunted
whom tuning cell by cell
their organist has tempered well
to voiceless peal that shall be heard:
Salvo to love who ways
goes sifting. Heart of hate
already wears its darnel fate;
allís good grain in the gleanerís breast.
And poetís eye it takes
dislimning Limbo shade,
kindness in form of makeless maid
and face of lady from on high.
Toward Millennium run
Love holds his purpose hid
till Azraelís franchised and Hell chid:
the poet fails, the vision stands.