Wednesday, July 16, 2014

The Masque Within a Red House.



Bury the tar gum deep,
a child asleep on a silken chair
to listen,
its one fine leaf will grow,



not in a circle but in a coil.
It will not leave the cave
you've made,
but do not harm it.



Last night she embraced me.
My idol twinned her arms around me,
caught me, and pierced my ear,
and there a tiny book will grow



of a mythological culture
that was permanently lost,
its navel the horizon:
Personality may never be discarded.



A demon may live the fullest life
as a poor shoe,
a child asleep on a silken chair;
its one fine ear will grow.



O hear ye, Eumenides!
Your must knot hunt the Snark,
but take the rabbit from the briar
to oak the fuel Saussure. 



Its fire will take no tea:
Cum pascit pascitur, 
et cum pascitur pascit;
even if they are written
in any language.




The strongest chair
for even the lightest shoe
must be built to fall apart
yet never crumble.



This demon Thalassa
is made of chalcanthum.