Saint Sebastian Sans the Sacred
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Most memories cannot be kept close, not near,
Not near enough to scar, unless the scar
Is of a tribal kind gouged in by fear
Appearing as a shaman in that far
Off jungle called romance. Such marks cannot
Be banished on a London couch or one
In Austria. There culture is a blot.
There therapy will not let Freud rerun
Such depths, much less let ordinary days
Endure these pocks. An avatar of what
You were is reconstructed as a maze
I can’t escape unless I cut, cut, cut, cut
You like a surgeon in my brain, those parts
That St. Sebastian opened for throes’ darts.