Every tree bears a horn,
attests to the growth of a notion: thrusting upward,
above ground. The horizon is cut
with his male sword.
The water is spread with words.
In the forest of forms, men slash and burn
stung by their own bereavement.
But the sky is so intelligent–
weaving its computer graphics over the howl
of human night in the eternal city-state. The mass of men drink, dwindling to basest instincts
which is not chaos, but first ground:
a swarm of zeros and ones, a distressingly reasonable
copulation.
(Iblis offers an apple, the sun, in his right hand
while attempting, with the left, to conceal his nakedness
with a small, twinkling fistful of words and gestures.)
Everything withers to simplicity, the most salacious abstraction.
II.
Incense rises with the gibberish. The eon itself-the fat of time-colludes.
In the cafe, sun-fall. From the semiurban streets,
shrieks of dejection, carnal joy.
Another cripple is birthed, another breast
withheld.
It is closing time now, but I am left
only with questions:
Are all the sweeteners in this shop
artificial?
What kind of fathers are rising
in the eyes of these children? What kind of sun sets
behind the bloody pines?
