The wise of old never thought to sit
and think, or to fast, or forgive:
they opposed the sacrifice of actions,
appetites and animosities. A vigorous
hate feeds the soul and tunes its bones.
But — famished in flesh, torpid with reason,
and brimming with petty clemency —
I realize a debt to my physician.
What do I owe for this illness?
Isem Goins is a new heteronym. The son of pious farmers, he scorns Christianity and its dualistic view of the universe. He tends to write didactic poetry, and he’s fond (maybe too fond) of alliteration.
The transition to the end seems abrupt and unclear. Isem might want to consider adding a middle to this poem.