The Aporia Heights
I.
The river’s high, been high a long time now,
It’s ‘bout time we best get crossin’ over,
Ford’s there under the water, just gotta hit it,
‘Course if you miss it, current will pull you under,
Slim chance on comin' back up,
Never thought I’d cross it like I am,
Not knowin’ whether I’d like the bottom better,
Sleeping on the riverbed, a son of Egypt.
II.
I thought I’d die the night the earth laid bleeding,
The sky and sea contented hard for every seed,
And the abyss, black as raven feather, encroached,
Drawing out her bleating virgin moan.
Wolves circle round, gray as sepulchral stone,
The dancing embers of their eyes move low
Along the narrowing gyre of their three-legged gait,
Until the smoke of a snarl shrouds a gruesome fate.
What then your foal by love of a mandrake root?
What then your calf by merry liar and lute?
What then your tribe by the sands of blooded dread?
What then your life, when the dog is dried and dead?
III.
Rocking in the cradle of a mother’s arm,
A book is bound in the flesh of night,
Ribbons red, spill from out the edge,
Dripping as drops of crimson tears.
A judge turns page to page and sloughing off decrees,
Drowns the reaper and the poet’s brow
In the melting of his waxen form
As like a sprig in winter’s sting.
The pusher-men and the beggar-men
Each all turn down their palms,
Empty their hands of the candy bits,
And flick the knife of a threatening grin,
To gather up new alms.
IV.
Lady, Lady, wrapped in sugared dreams,
Your fangs are sweeter than candied stones,
Your voice enthralls as like a viper’s chirp,
Your figure finer than a hell-spun honeycomb.
Your word is mixed and rocks me to and fro,
At times upbraiding nature to bolster grace,
At others, ripping flesh as to remove the itch;
If only I could read the features of your face.
Why then you speak with me, and tune me tight,
And pester my sight with visions of lusty distress?
If then I sing with strings so unbearably taut,
Will you slink hither and slip out of your dress?
V.
The white owl catches wing,
And all the woods echo and the answer rings
With the whistle of a maiden’s song,
As like a gainward call to the coming dawn.
And yet her bright visage in starlight’s catch
Has written my soul what the moonbeam said
When dark had fallen upon my doom,
And the drape of her hair covered my wounds.
In hope, in heart, in hearth, in home,
Let night release these languid bones,
Let mercy tender and dreams be pure,
Let moonlight fade and sunlight near,
Let trumpet blow a joyful wind,
That might I rise and live again.
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