My Ownly Souldier*

Take this house, this
half rocket mass I have,
and plant it in the ground,
under mounds of brittle,
ungodly sage; leave it only
a page of Whitman; let it
ferment in the paling stench
the dead know to be hell—
that is, until the idea of
bell opens itself that little
in them, helps them mouth
the shape of friend, the shapes
of country somewhere inside
the plenty. Someday we’ll
thank you, but not until.

*A revision, which loses some of the original intent. But oh well.