In krypteia they awake
as the cold wind awakens
a hunger, but there is no
set pattern.
A hunter must wander,
and the repast if found
is often hollow, for in this
wood are many fugitives
with strange natures.
The forest is a polis to be sure
but its foundations of charcoal
and skins are laid down
according not to finely carved
instruments, but to nameless
whistling bones, and cults
of privacy and privation.
Artemis is of the wood,
and Aphrodite of the city,
but who can say which is more
ravishing, or whose raving
more incomplete.
The krypteia hardens the clay
of the vessel, and polishes
its natural emblem, its birthmark,
the world of erorastemenos is
the very figure of a scandal,
of fitness, and of rage
honed down to a foci
of engagements, the body
long ago was already
a polis-wood, an
ephesium.
The wood is to will
its gymnasium all through
the spare cities, for space
is all wood, the knot is
pushed out beyond the limits
of reach, the lock surpassed
by the mirroring circuit.
Look wholly at the vessel square on,
a predator swallowed a magic acorn
to initiate the dance, the peace
which was made was not bidden,
but gained, as the arrow
makes purchase in the skin
by no thinking of its own,
atomos synthome, the lyre
would scour the knocking beats
for truth, some spintharis
to arc out a room upomm
the moor, the hare
accounting for its
whole.
