Way away and beyond and in command at ground control,
Was Richard Crashaw, poet, with the 'daughter of desires,'
Away from this marsh of a beat, wisps of delusive fires,
Darke reigne and tumult externalized, of a bit of soul.
His ardent rapture was the eager flame of the whole!
Jesus Christ died of cruelty, for homosexuals and liars,
Sacred name valid in mantraps and architectural choirs,
A metaphorical paradox that opens, dares and inspires.
If I had the fervent wit or such love for Saint Teresa,
There might have been a supposed triumph on the spot,
More lurks of unwordly sensuality and solemn amnesia.
Not gathered like fish, bear, mule, kangaroo or marmot,
Captivated and sorrowed by this time of sexual seizure,
The others may not have thought Crashaw's poetry crash hot.