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The Hunters Enter The Scene

The day cast a spell

Where by ascending so many stones

I could not leave the center garden

Where my children lay

Muttering about the hell mouth

Where a muscular sense of heaven

The bright depressive colors

Kept me tacked to the wall

In the space of the poem

The dogs will eat the unicorns

With their placid gore

Calm and sure of themselves, like time

Where the Bishop

With half his body missing

Holds his right hand

Perhaps in something like a peace sign

I ask my lover, where did the left go

His own head is rounded

With grotesque metals

His soul, a colorless glass

He has conquered his religion

With three inward fires

And when he sits in the room

Fits the figure of a king

He is a man of sorrows

Made of ferns and tiny succulents

Made of wood in the shape of fabric

Made of marble in the shape of wood

In him I remember another

Taking me to the olive tree

In the western arboretum

His refinement of stars

I thought of the ancient story

Where the two lovers turned into stars

I imagined a sort of magic

Of becoming an olive tree for all eternity

For my king, could I be more loving

I bring him my sour oranges

Piling and heaping orange fruit

All over my body

Draping russet red cloth

Over my endless hair

Anointing my body with figs

All just to make him love me

Burning what is between us

Into smoking angry holes

His beard no longer red and grey

But Jove-like and neon green

My love, he sits in tiny firs