With a lead heart beating across a naked chest,
Against propped-up knees knocking,
His head sitting between the slanted shoulders,
Erect, with eyes that are half-closed, and half-open.
His hands, his gentle fingers that often caressed
A muse or two, or three or four, are now
Gnarled upon the shins, pulling to, or away from,
The hug of one. And what of his lips?
Such a slight fissure, so near imperceptible,
A subtle smile forever in making;
Will they let out, when the dusk fades into night,
A sigh— or a scream? A word? Whisper?
Who will hear Belacqua’s utterance?
Who shall see him walk, into the black waves—
Or, some other streets that toward a wayward Ys run?
Will those fools? They—the poor imitators of Belacqua’s
Purgatorial seat? Shall they stand, follow, sing, cry?
Break the wind, dash down and up the timeless slopes?
Is not; why not. Since
There Belacqua sits.