Always then, Madonna, configuration of the One
whose heart, burning hot in his iron hands,
is halved: one for your blue altar
the other for the scroll of stars & air
that shakes at the turn of angels infernal—
If in the rain of flowers, dry fingers in a dry season
assault the shards of our limbs, your fangs,
it is, Madonna, a paradox of thralldom to your fire,
a constancy to bestial vow, reverence to crystal hearts—
For all paths lead to you, Madonna
For all doors open to you, Madonna
For all windows receive you, Madonna
& though Mystic & Madonna
stagger—O Laceration of Innocence!
O Gentle Savagery of Youth!
about the hymnal light,
blinded by the shafts of terrible words & acts—
Let not all signs of decay, all songs of throe
Misrule the memorial covenant of love:
& this the paradox of murder, singular blue—
The Huntsman is Holy when Most Violent & True.