Was it noble,

The bitter austerity of desire



Viol to cello, rampant to redoubled


Free animals,

Phaedrus a litter of souls coupled



There was a hillside farm, a steep one. I saw it.


It was slow to

Perish, floating in a mist of white bees.


Then later,

My face became strange to me.


The world also.

Charioteer of wounds and bleeding,


What herbs might help

My dead beneath the bright wheels of thousands


Of you? Wild thyme

Was a man once. The upshot and noon inclined


To apogee,

The higher still as early Magdalene.