The deeds of sacred mongrels produce these images
The fate of citizens hangs in the balance
The street thirsts for the long blood of a growling god
And the Queen’s graceful toil, bruised and cunning, is as good as gone.
A fool is always left hanging
The gate of hell is lined with them
As if some excellent hand made a fire then
Sent round for a laughing boy or two
To make images of the helpless, the handless and the deathless.
Straightaway, I heard you say, on that day
When born of immortality
You walked away and became