from civilisation: a diary

pagan

the coffin wends through Charleville,
it is a rich day for rags;
we thought you painted our rosary.
little is left but the weeping of children,
spawned was your growth;
pagan.
perhaps, we believe you.
that the sun is good,
the snow black as a charnel house.
no epithets.
there will be other gods.

'...and yet none more wonderful than man'

in homage,
Scardinelli;
in homage.
yours was the solstice,
the Attic sun.
Diotima: you could not survive her;
for poets there is only one giving,
one bittersweet.
now wait the drunken intruder
to wake the Christian night.

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