UNTITLED

When the world has been reduced to a dark wood I will find you
a taste of ashes floats on the air. The musk is in the deer. The fire
in the wood. What new constellations of torment rise for me now?
Like weak prey torn open I have bared my innermost hidden pulse
to my killer. And if I become the ancient traveller I shall go down
the path the air milky and spiced with trade winds with rose leaves
in closed jars. Here it has the sublime confusion of a dream we
cannot remember. The great fire which illuminates us and sings in
our flesh leaves us a husk of helpless shadows. Again these same
thoughts that fall and fly. Whistlings of death and unheard music.
I have been humiliated by the destructive powers of my own love.
I have confessed an appetite that is unspeakable. At the time of
telling blood flows from each eyelash pieces of the heart that
come through the eyes.