--- J O N A T H A N   W E I N E R T

Now has been 
		my only word.
	I haven’t needed others. Now

my garment has been snatched from me,
		I need a name
	to cover my nakedness . . .

How tiresome. How terribly O.T.
		Tell me, 
	are you really psyched

about the old man’s wedding? All that cant 
		about lamps and virgins,
	while we still can’t choose

between the serpent and the tree. This
		I know:
	The body's a rare swarm,

a coalition, but the soul still has a jones for it
		despite its gaggings and betrayals
	—like a bhikkhu or a crack-star

itching for a hit. Such a palsy
		of enlightenment. 
	such a Gee-I-never-asked-for-this, 

such an All’s-unfair-in-love-of-war,
		such a Shouldn’t-ought-
	to-be-this-way, such a Wanting-out.

So look, I’m trying on some names for me:
		The Garbled Pawn.
	The Jeweled Sling. The Faulty First 

Impression. The Coating on the Hidden Tongue.
		The Puppet Skin.
	The One Who Blinked.