Untitled The egoist's trick for everlasting service Well-rendered unto one of quenchless need Lies in the art of chilling by degrees And leeching out the fire-blooded column Into its bulb earth-sunken, numb and nerveless And slowly entering the calming freeze Before the dervish appetites can kick And batter all life's trophies in their greed. With ashen face, impassive as a golem Full mindful of the smallest jot and tittle The egoist tames his hands to serve, his quick Crusted in rime as sharp as shale, and brittle. But if that gelid mantle were to crack: Then one might draw within The lungs wind, and wail Such a wailing As the world could not begin To will away, Although so keen and frail A word as this, Weird-woven for a day Of final failing, Seems scarcely to exist And scarce to kiss The heart and hollow ears Before it disappears Into the wayward and the wind-strewn mist. Yet none would hear if one should cry, Alack! And ever, ever I am at your service, For it is meet, God-willed, and all my purpose. David DeBoe