The Monster That Cures

The monster that cures the world
Has no middle name and does not know
His family tree past Grandmother, nor
Does he care to.  He cannot spell
With high certainty and flounders
In voicing his heart grammatically.

Some say he is a traitor to the race
Because he has only his lifetime to spend
And turned away from history to face his dirty fellows
Hearing and replying, hot and rough.
Condemned by poets to repeat his past
He does not mind, for any grade will serve
As long as there are people in it
And an occasional recess.


The world that cured the monster
Taught him that all faces
Stand for hearts, and names
Have something to them beyond the wind
He had thought was breaking on rot
Inside the many hard menhirs of the world — 
Useless except for mumblings and
Sexless derivation.


Between them they may discover
The monster’s middle name
And the menhir’s conscience.  Then will
A moonlit dance ensue
Wildly accelerating where the stones
Meet the heart and the heart makes
Love to form.  Such a dance will
Trumpet endlessly across the moors and oceans
Of our time.