John
Donne exulted in those jack-knife spasms
Of
two-backed conquest which engorged his mind;
Sweat-hot
confusion, gasping over chasms,Thrust glow-skinned glamour on gruff womankind.
Old-aged, reneging bed-lust pomps as phantasms,
Limned in a shroud, his chalk-faced carcass blind
In penance, self-denouncing hesychasms
Flung purging fire on soul and sin entwined.
Donne knew that death-aroma’d time must force
Derangement of the healthful body’s joys,
And soul-won goods in loss must find their source
As intellect splits up to its alloys;
Wit-young or prelate-old, in death’s divorce
Truth is blatant; it saves or it destroys.
====================
©
May 2015