The Lame Take the Prey

but which door does the breath open

is it a god of flowers / is it a god of bones

every day an election

among the arteries, the veins

is it a god of wool, the miner’s

vestal burden

he pauses before the doors,

row upon row / —is it a god of doors

driven into the muscle of the breath

now the victor-vein approaches

holding its god to its bruised eye

~

one could declare an end to all charity

one could reprise the torturer’s role

for which the will

weaves its glittering costume

(whitening in the wheat’s blond choir)

from the equestrian depths, the mows

(for which the will weaves

its sober costume)

the coronary moon inclined to pass

through rather than over the forest,

stricken

from the briefs of their former hosts