Incubus

A raw communion wafer in my hand A hard wind melting the castles of sand There is an anger roaring through us A surf thrashing on the rocky shore An inebriated old incubus Its wist binds our Samson to the floor It butters the children dry bread Broke hole in my mother's shoes Turn blue, silky skies to lead And print morning and evening news I saw the pale infection Coiled like a whip on a Great House floor The master of the plantation The tears of children on a foreign shore.