4210 Improv 8

Hap
by Thomas Hardy
If but some vengeful god would call to me From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing, Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, that thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!" Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die, Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I Had willed and meted me the tears I shed. But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? --Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

My Improv-

If, for some reason, I were to live
from a fractal of time, wandering talks of lace satin,
know it be a nightmare-- the un-learned
that existed but, never truly jump the plane.
Then forgive my predetermined vagina
steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased by the perks of floral decent.
Had the "why" been answered
but instead X scar me pretty
And curse the man who wish to kiss.
-- Crass my sympathy, my hand over the sick baby's forehead
And leave me in the South American jungle
bliss-es sung softly in Spanish lullabies.