The fang has formed the fawn, and red makes green
On meadow grass where blood distills to sap.
The world blooms from carrion soil, made clean
By vultures turned to blossoms. Maggots trap
If I am clay, seawater, and lightening
And nothing more - still the clay is thankful.
If guttering flame, dimming, brightening,
Snuffed to smoke - yet the wisp is grateful.
Longing, we listen, but the stars mock us.
The great silence enfolds us endlessly.
God's passing shadow lies cold upon us
Without the soft whisper of the prophecy.
The library at the end of the world -
Where once more poetry of dead tongues sings,
Risen from silence; where forgotten curled
Scrolls are cherished (for alone of all things
Mere pond scum slew the former world:
Some turquoise goo in fetid pools
By tepid wavelets slowly whirled;
Unnoticed and unlikely ghouls,
The arson ash of Troy besmears my hand;
My arm aches from pounding nails in a cross;
Bored, I stomp numbed feet as I stand
Watch over kapo Jews, whilst they toss
We will meet on the dead sea bed
The day time ends, beneath the ember
That was the sun, in the last red
Twilight, to touch lips and remember.
God made Adam. But Adam made Eden,
When his eyes opened to precipitate
From the infinite cloud the one garden.
All possibilities thronged at the gate
He paused the westward march of all the East
Near Sardis, to wonder at the beauty
Of a plane tree. As if a simple priest,
He hung with gold the emerald canopy
Last night, as softly as a spider flees,
A Passover of grim oblivion
Advanced inexorably by degrees
Due westward from the prime meridian.