He yelled at me in Greek,
my God!—It’s not his language
and I’m no good at—his Aramaic,
was—I am a monoglot of English
(American version) and, say pieces from
a baker’s dozen others: where’s the bread?
but rising in the Second Gospel, pal:
The seed goes down, god dies,
a rising happens,
some crust, and then occurs an eating. He said so,
a Greek idea,
troublesome to imaginary Jews,
like a bitter Henry, full of the death of love,
Cawdor-uneasy, disambitious, mourning
the whole implausible necessary thing.
He dropped his voice & sybilled of
the death of the death of love.
I óught to get going.