655 and 656

I drank from waters that had promised me

refreshment from the driest I had been,

the driest I had been, prolongedly,

out of which grace would spare, I knew not when.

So drank I from this well, which knew, well, me,

until I could not drink any drop more;

but wished to, for I continued to be

as wanting water as I had before.

But still no other fountain gave me drink

but that one, lying gave to desperate me.

I draped my head in the base of that sink

until my need for water ripped me free.

Dry searching is much better than a sea

that, liquid, still leaves dry a fool like me.

~~~

Once known, I longed to know again, to read

again the words that captivated me.

The more I branded them inside my head,

the more I needed to return and see.

I thought that only pleasure brought you back

to pleasure, but I know it is not so.

It is the lack of pleasure, and the lack

of seeing it that holds your mind’s eye so.

I did not want the pleasure of the thing

again, but just to rid that pining brain

that wants—my skull against me craves to cling

on what I wish could, in the past, remain.

It’s this that makes the desperate cyclic dirge:

not wanting, but in quieting the urge.