Irkalla's White Caves

I believe that a young woman

Is standing in a circle of lions

In the other side of the sky.

In a little while I must carry her the flowers

Which only fade here; and she will not cry

If my hands are not very full.

         ±

Fiery antlers toss within the forests of heaven

And ocean’s plaintive towns

Echo the tread of celestial feet.

O the beautiful eyes stare down…

What have we done that we are blessèd?

What have we died that we hasten to God?

                           ±

And all the animals are asleep again

In their separate caves.

Hairy bellies distended with their kill.

Culture blubbering in and out

Like the breath of a stranded fish.

Crucifixion in wax. The test-tube messiahs.

Immaculate fornication under the smoking walls

Of a dead world.

                           I dig for my death

           in this thousand-watt dungheap.

           There isn’t even enough clean air.

To die in.

           O blood-bearded destroyer!

         In other times…

         (soundless barges float

         down the rivers of death)

         In another heart

         These crimes may not flower…

         What have we done that we are blessèd?

         What have we damned that we are blinded?

                            ±

Now, with my seven-holed head open

On the air whence comes a fabulous mariner

To take his place among the spheres—

The air which is God

And the mariner who is sheep—I fold

Upon myself like a bird over flames. Then

All my nightbound juices sing. Snails

Pop out of unexpected places and the long

           light lances of waterbulls plunge

           into the green crotch of my native land.

Eyes peer out of the seaweed that gently sways

Above the towers and salt gates of a lost world.

                             ±

On the other side of the sky

A young woman is standing

In a circle of lions—

The young woman who is dream

And the lions which are death.