“Come drink with me
and be my love
for ever and a day.”
Noli me tangere. The history of innocence, mon amour,
is dead: in seizures we’ve long renewed the morrow:
If the game of crime and punishment bereaves tradition
It’s, Caligula, an assault on Master’s Glass Bead Game.
Old vice. Ever our malevolent faces in the mirror rise.
Fleeing through the air, we trip on bones, dreams, wiles
& review the flogged ceremony of straw: locked bodies
that crawl in frozen fire, shallow waters, rocks, lice.
We hunker, each to each, in labyrinth of dying rooms
& the warp of drama that unfolds is the wicked pantomime
of brawlers who tried with guts & flowers to smash the moon.
Gnarled speech. Too late in coming, fingers creep, hold on.
But dash, lovers, the turbulence of heart on the crystal floor
as dreams of leaves are distant now & sleep is heavy soon.