Whose birth was a vulgar Utterance, a bawd or corner mutter-
Ance, the lance
Which checks a surfeit of disdain.
The lance, which pierces softness
In the hide. The words which I have cast
While smiling duly
But do I rub your callus or your wound?
Hack you with the blade or leather sheath? As firm
As you stood in the barren haugh, I saw where
Truth had sunk the gilded teeth
Gentle lamb, your father was the same
(Still fettered by the afterbirth’s conceit)
He too once marched across my dream-bed
Like some prophet. Names are important, so
I was Nimue. I was the mistress of the waters,
Sword-drawer. I promise I will cut along the grain that you might heal without a weal of scar.
When I saw you. The fever came on suddenly as
Treachery. My guts roiled with maggots, rot
Oozed from my mouth like a confession.
The heather is burning! I saw the castle razed,
Choking my dream lungs. Straight razors over your
Shared square jaws
At the pivotal moment the throat weeping, opened My sight soared like a raven and I saw the many lives
We’d lead together. I saw:
Your druid solemnity called sullen, as you withdrew
into the close apartment.
A cigarette dropped
Behind the balkline, burning the soft finish
Burning the green, the velvet finish
To sip is to be trammeled by the cup. To sit again is to never stand up.
Millenia have past and we are reborn, soft and uncallused.
My car is a Volkswagen Beetle; she grumbles and
Haws in the grey of winter.
Sing! Sing! For the sinking galleons Felled battalions
At last you are forgiven. Sing! At night, my body yearns separately from me. But
this is the modern age.
Butold swords, when sharpened by conservators
still run with their first blood.
I submit myself to tests of this age I buy milk and soap and tampons
Sustained by this: The heather burning
Emerging in your glory from the brushfire