Passover

I am enclosed by
people that I know,
who made me possible somehow
but I disguise them.

I’ve begun to find tiny hair, weeds
they Creep around my shoulders
like an embrace tightening for
the worst, dark constellations
of ivy, they – yes, Birnam Wood -- whatever.

I’ve quit the blood posting.
The second night order
has finished with the past concluded
and the wine all drunk.
Not a soul is warm or weary,
nor craves a paschal lamb.

That vessel is due at my doorstep,
sounds windchimes around the corner.
It has quit more projects, shirked
more endings than Coleridge.

And I’ve quit God like he
quit Keats, young and 25,
two very different things,
firing a capsule into an autumn blooming.