For Tom Disch
The escalator, rolling ever down,
has reached an end at last and here you lie
as lonely as a sailor left to drown—
like your trapped hero, we cannot know why.
The roaches march in lockstep to commands
like convicts programmed for unwelcome war,
a war that's lost though no one understands
but you, who tried to warn us once before
what lies in wait for red-faced arrogance.
"We are all cripples"—you, alone, divine,
a smirking Momus whose knife-twirling prance
drew blood to fill our cups of dream-dark wine.
Your Resurrection surely won't take long:
your demon words borne high on wings of song.