avoiding the smallest
threat of inconvenience
posed by rich mythologies
that don't explain
a thing—at least,
not nearly as well
as they tend
to illuminate
the dry bones
and land mines which lie
in the brambles
and the cold
distant sun at the heart
of their explainer—
it seems you've grown more lenient;
you're now ready
to concede
that there's dignity
in the tyrannized,
in the role of doleful entertainer,
and most of all,
in the drudgery
of rolling up your sleeves
to pitch them
the salvation
of which you alone were told
but now are
far too old
to receive.
