The Rites Of Darkness

The sleds of the children

Move down the right slope.

To the left, hazed in the tumbling air,

A thousand lights smudge

Within the branches of the old forest,

Like colored moons in a well of milk.

The sleds of the children

Make no sound on the hard-packed snow.

Their bright cries are not heard

On that strange hill.

The youngest are wrapped

In cloth of gold, and their scarfs

Have been dipped in blood.

All the others, from the son

Of Tegos, who is the Bishop

Of Black Church—near Tarn,

On to the daughter of the least slut,

Are garbed in love's shining dress;

Naked little eels, they flash

Across the amazed ice.

And behind each sled

There trots a man with his sex

Held like a whip in his snaking hand.

But no one sees the giant horse

That climbs the steps which stretch forth

Between the calling lights and that hill

Straight up to the throne of God.

He is taller than the highest tree

And his flanks steam under the cold moon.

The beat of his heart shakes the sky

And his reaching muzzle snuffles

At the most ancient star.

*

The innocent alone approach evil

Without fear; in their appointed flame

They acknowledge all living things.

The only evil is doubt; the only good

Is not death, but life. To be is to love.

This I thought as I stood while the snow

Fell in that bitter place, and the riders

Rode their motionless sleds into a nowhere

Of sleep. Ah, God, we can walk so easily,

Bed with women, do every business

That houses and roads are for, scratch

Our shanks and lug candles through

These caves; but, God, we can't believe,

We can't believe in anything.

Because nothing is pure enough.

Because nothing will ever happen

To make us good in our own sight.

Because nothing is evil enough.

*

I squat on my heels, raise my head

To the moon, and howl.

I dig my nails into my sides,

And laugh when the snow turns red.

As I bend to drink,

I laugh at everything that anyone loves.

All your damn horses climbing to heaven