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