canto

where the wild men inched it was a delicious Sight – here in

the darkening jungle we collate our intuited desires

to arrive at some kind of circumstance where we

can abjure and dissolve ourselves like quiet cats

scattering in the street – pound upon pound of red meat

skewered and roasted

these utter Selves complacent with Irony and full bellies

condescend to Us in strict

4/4 Time all these heralded Avatars

grown succulent in an inky Night

what can they

Now represent? (We have blessed

the Virgins gone wandering

in the Wood; theirs is the ancient rite of sung elegies

and surefooted Arrival) because

we grind down the wheels with flint

and ice

at our Instep – the collared dove is

stuttering in the twilight the

motion of

instinct before a blustery storm We hold

forth our Arms

with encircling haste these

the utter days

unto our Rapture --