Financial Aid and Money

A scene of anger and renunciation
Unbearable, for oneness to be split when undivided deep inside one still is. Why then does every atom, every bit of me ring
like Achilles?
There is that word a chilling one "revenge", that leaves no room for any other thing. That word is bent by crazy northwest
winds as if it were mere tin.
I mean the Devil. Through the universe
he roams like wind, and generously sows
gold grain from his fat glossy purse
in these soft-bodied, long-legged creatures' souls;
what can I do the while
to wrest those innocents back?
Grab at the pony-tails, and drag?
The spirit's silent, though, curled like a snail,
a mollusc spirit, murdered through the heel,
just like Achilles...
or Philoctetes
who would a swollen foot thus nurse
just like a yogin in Old Greece,
renouncing all the earthly vanities.
The word "revenge" has antonyms, like "spleen", although, where postwar peace treaties are writ, their antonym senses are
but slightly split, just like the twin points of a single pen.
I'm crushed and crumpled, and have no desire nor strength, to feel mad fury's heat. My heart is like a crumpled sheet it
straightens out
when set on fire
The Russian poet on Russian Hill
With his back to the bay
In the bay window
Held us all transfixed
With the sound
Of the bells of his mouth
So that we could tell
The big bells from the small,
The old ones muffled in snow
Under skies made of black leather,
Tolling, and the bright
Small child bells light
With their laughter.
He finished by asking
Us to send our sounds
To his country so that perhaps
His people would hear our bells
Instead of the rumbling
Coming out of the East.
Every one was still.
At that moment the bells Of Saints Peter and Paul On Washington Square Struck ten.