If only this were all - the sink, the hearth, the stove, occasionally the bed; but outside a stallion with a bright mane and treading on the air is passing and from his look I see this will be no hack-and-jacket ride, but a wild hunt with life itself the quarry. - Fired by anger and the drive for danger, at last admitting of a self-immolating hunger I go - but you can not see in such a ride the suicide of everything in me except an emerging stranger?
Sitting alone in the room I grow silently, like some green plant renewing. Osmosis is slow - almost invisible yet I know I now fill each of four corners - could lift the room's objects without muscle moving. Silence waters my thought - gives the mind levels of green beyond seeing - any moment may be a flowering - some gracious invincible seed able to spring from under brute boots year after year - a filigree strength smile from the centre of bruising - pure colours touching the world like song, articulate and teasing.
You have given me a sword; little by little have tempered the metal with the blows of your words - with your anvil of anger my dread of your danger - spilled cauldron of anguish thunder-lash-language chipping each day word by word. Word by word suffering assumes a shape; you have sharpened the point to exquisite grace; o my Inquisitor, what is the name of the race that your Torturer runs with me? My silence outstrips him where speech would have tripped me: exhausted, yes - scourged, yes - scoured to the limit beaten to the finest finish, to the most subtle metal, word by word the sword that you make of me sharpens.
She stands, white-sheeted white-shrouded child-spirited at the road's edge. Since morning she has fallen fathoms - dropped like a plummet through net after net of care - she walks on eggshells and talks of nunneries; the corn is cut about her - O cradle your arms and catch this creature, for her feet slip on the world's edge.
In the heat my bathing costume hangs from the ceiling hook like a joint of meat. Scarlet and black, brushed with the bluish glaze like putrefaction it attracts that gad-fly, imagination I think of Rembrandt painting - recording the slow rainbow of decay day after day from suppurating sides of meat hung from his studio ceiling - the bright blood pooling to black on the boards below: congealing. I watch him arrest this death-process - see his artist's thought caught by the vivid spectrum of disintegration which hangs from the hook like a book before him and make it immortal.
I do not like you coming through in your pyjamas to wash your mouth out late - you disturb the curve of my earth blunder like a man with a gun through my sky-full of birds - scatter them these words I try to control guide their flight soaring against clouds' white - punctuate heaven with the pattern with the rhythm with the lovely drawing together of the poem that in my head their passing wings possibly might make.
Glad not to sleep I lie with your arm - thrown anchor - lead heavy over me - quite still until cramps creep up my limbs making my movement wake you - sea-deep down you mutter to me, pull me onto your God-strong chest, my breasts crushed into your ribs - place of my genesis I left when beckoned on the Sistine ceiling my validity unsanctioned ever since, my parity questioned through history - love - how glad I am nightly to slide back into your side - re-assume the pharisee-certainty of your identity.
You have taken away my rôle, now that we no longer roll. The strings, puppet-master, by which you put me on my back lie slack. I am an abandoned lady. For years the routine was the same delightful, bouffant, undress- -me-game - then the quadrille beneath the sheets - a perfect partnering of feet, sweet through each dance. Alas, time has made our strings grow slack; my rôle no longer lies upon my back.
How does the iris of an angel's eye end on my table gathering cigarette-butts? Day after day stubs pin down the butterfly - and nicotine stains the pure blue. If I had left it in the shop where the ship of my imagination saw it I should always have had that pure blue drop to return to - always it would have been angel's eye - blue sky - butterfly uncaught, immortal. But I brought it back. It can break now.
The hart streams down the hill hooves scarcely touching rushing grasses the hound at its heels boys running shouting their unskilled killing cry exultant at this sudden find - the harsh barking throwing up of the startled head - flight down the spinning wind o nothing faster - unbearable beauty of this bounding creature swift through the hedge into the wood where it stood nostrils ablaze small, noble straight out of history and somehow - crowned.