he came down from Olympus
to his osier beds,
where, among the scrub willow,
the only graceful thing in his life soared and shimmered
full of silvery morning life,
beyond control, growing
clear of his self-constructed mythical height.
I am not in control
my muscles exist beyond
me the axe
head beyond that
the splinters don't fly
because of my
ego is apart
from the wound
the steel wedge
bites and sap
runs and runs
but this is
I am not the instigator of her fall.
in the blood rush of a brand new dawn
he wades carefully round the tarnished carcass
laid out and half submerged in stagnant oily beds.
Delicate extremities crisping brown; sliced
in the only place within his meagre reach,
the ragged stump still bleeding purity
and even now shooting clots of thin pale wands.
And they vibrate to his touch and play
and he admires their pleasing numbers
and they admire his uniqueness
and they grow swiftly for him
and he becomes what each wants:
her own Adonis on day release from Hades.
feeling grand, he'll circle
the clustered fibrillating clump
coppicing, with only a light cleaver
he'll execute each betrayal with skill
to make the victim thrill to have such sentence passed upon her weaknesses.
And the next and the next and the next
absorbed in a cyclical orgy
each renewal a diminishing pleasure
he’ll forget the wide strong anchors that let her rise so high
and that the seen is but a shadow of that beneath
and that the callous harvest of each feeble sister
might, in the sheltered green dip beyond the rise,
send the new root tip shoot toward the skies.