Polonaise 3
Leave in toads until stirred
by the horns of
someone’s moon. The dream waited,
and in a cauldron
I was stirred in
the moon’s spiral to find South:
find me what I can’t include. The speaker’s calf-head
angles for eels like an old king boiling in milk
for molecules to admit fresh chaos, that turns
eels silver to return to their sea. The dead king in boiled
mare’s blood stirred with a foreleg dipped in silver
to spring impulse back into form. A young king
jumps from the tub
and facts remain in equilibrium,
brambles in the void, these berries you must eat.
No comments:
Post a Comment