He yelled at me in Greek,

my God!—It’s not his language

and I’m no good at—his Aramaic,

was—I am a monoglot of English

(American version) and, say pieces from

a baker’s dozen others: where’s the bread?

but rising in the Second Gospel, pal:

The seed goes down, god dies,

a rising happens,

some crust, and then occurs an eating. He said so,

a Greek idea,

troublesome to imaginary Jews,

like a bitter Henry, full of the death of love,

Cawdor-uneasy, disambitious, mourning

the whole implausible necessary thing.

He dropped his voice & sybilled of

the death of the death of love.

I óught to get going.