to Maurice Blanchard
Before rejoining the nomads
The seducers ignite columns of gas
To dramatize the harvest
Poetic toil will begin tomorrow
Preceded by the cycle of voluntary death
The reign of darkness scuttling reason the diamond in the mine
Mothers smitten with patrons of the last sigh
Excessive mothers
Endlessly furrowing the massive heart
Endless prey to the shuddering ferns of embalmed thighs
You will be won
You will go to bed
Alone at river-windows
Great lighted faces
Dream there is nothing that dies
In their carnivorous landscape.
[PA]