Wait for objectivity to usher me out of all cloaks
Beyond both thought and flesh transcendentally
Nowhere
May this not be the last naïve spontaneity left
In the sad twisted disgrace of a soul
Who waited too long
For the delivery of the early promise
Of uncomprehending adults
Who believed wrongly both
That I would grow up to see like them
And that I would like it
But I will make no accommodation
Here inside
Where what’s left of the truth lives—no,
I will not come across.