To the Mistress of the Urban Ape

I will.
Never.
I must!
Rest.
But it is what comes to me.
Well then, contain.

And to that
the Ape could say no more.

----

The primal Ape is woebegone.
He wants the Man to speak
in a manner of force—
a speech of will,
unbridled,
unshaped.

His memories are rife
with mossy cliffs,
watery valleys of stone
and naked coral reefs,
all fluid with life.

The Man, however, is Urbane.
He must not make
a mockery of poise
and silence,
studied,
subjected.

His vision is filled
with buildings of stone,
modelled to be mute,
alive, and yet,
unmoving, unwilled.

A war is in progress.

It is the race of him,
millions old,
crying to express,
and this face of him,
newfound,
refusing to depress.

----

Oh, I shall tear this world apart!
You must not!
I will.
You will n...
And now a bellow, now a scream,
As his face is ripped asunder.

---

The Ape, victorious,
holder of the horn,
now announces his plea
to his Mistress not-to-be:

O hark,
you Thoughtful One!

Of flesh, of mind,
of heart, of soul,
of the loftiest
and the dingiest,
of the fleetest
and the finest,
of the holiest
and the darkest,
of the newest
and the brightest,
of the ancient
and the worn,
this Ape forlorn,
in terrible pieces torn,
shall bring to your feet
the best.

Call my name,
O my abiding Love,
and rest.

I wait to serve,
subdued.