Wednesday, March 17, 2010

They consult a wooden idol and are answered by a stick of wood.

O no no no, you won’t become my myth-man,
fog-man, caller in the night. You have
buoyed up with spurts of milk-sound honeyed
words the fragile ark of our strange covenant
too long: it is dark: the storm of world-rage
thicks the air between the sun and deep,
and you are long gone—

Begun to spin in wide-eyed worry, me,
whimpering in wine-dark, tempest-minded seas.
Sword-man, shield-man, hero-poet sweet,
you are nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing to me.