What is immortal?And if it is immortal how is it thatit has an incurable diseaseand wanders arounda total aberration, a mutant, whilethe catamount vanishes from the species.Is it that we live at the top of the food chain, alonewith no link to anything above us,no elegant forfeiture in the mouth of the tiger?Or is our problem thatwe do not actually liveat the top of the food chain.And are devoured daily by thought. And time.Holy and obscene; unmentionable.Time does not go beyond its maiden name.And anyway, right now, everything tastes good.All the male poets’ poems, and dirty, dirty chocolate layer cake.I swallow it with a glass of milk.The crumb crawls down my throatand enters me. The power of Christ compels              not I—but the wish to be changed—everything is challengedby the sudden flame of joy—how uncomfortable we are with happiness.But Darling, you’re staggering.Your temple mouth is being foresworn.Sister, crying in the hammockbecause your lover will not come—the children are screaming and running with blue gunsin the air, with little cuts on their feet.And you, little mole angel, restless song,smashed idol, bronzed cat headon the hood of a car headed into the ravinedriven by our ancestor’s dark awe of a comet—how can someone not becomeheartbreaking in one senseof the word—not findthey are a stranger   in their own householdof truly             unnamable need?