Oxen of the Sun 415
Don't dare remember that this is a game
the remote look of giving
smiling, perhaps these storms are
only angels
ardent
dangerous
fond of hands
transfiguring shadows over the world
while we slumber wide-eyed
under the torrent of light below
and you are over there,
standing with an urn of ashes
too conscious of some last full grey birth
where were assembled the
shepherds, the girls
who were arrested then bled until
they resembled the comedy of skin
collided punctual with the end
and were finally mistaken for the vast sky.
1 comment:
Love the ram!
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