For Gandhi, The Mohandas

What end is there in my obstinacy, breaking the pliant with my insolence;


Lashing on the dead skin, there is no blood;

But there is a screech, a silent wail, in those wet eyes, in that brittle voice;

A trembling hand reaching out to a closure, though inhibited by a benign petulance;

Do not accuse me, I am an idol, an axiom, a providence, a prophet;

I am not hollow, but brimming forever, I am not dismal, but a frail fervor....