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VII. Drunken sonnet
Rather it is passion which follows me down;
‒
true, I didn’t frolic, for I was drunk and dizzy,
the pint’s handle propped me night and morn,
then the horizon darkened before me
& I would have set out, Ulysses to Ithaca,
if I didn’t fear my tired legs at night
would give out under me: at last I crawl away…
hating: what a horrid stinking glop slumps along?
Sloth: are you human? I don’t ask anymore
if it’s an animal, this almost-human sin!
As if it’s just snowed, that’s how that night fell;
I tripped, and a bush set on me. Thus I live:
harsh winter pervades even the autumn in me.