Interiors

Small flame pointing, shadowing, picking out
Black lacquer, bronze, blue velvet, a tassel
That sweeps the chequered floor. God of battles,
Bless these Thy banners. Smoke and the smell of fat
Ascending to cold turbulence over us,
A cold wind crawling the stone thresholds,
And through the cry of captains in the street
The hooded women carry uprooted canes
Into the courtyard for the fire of
Their ceremony called Burning of Wands.

The icy road, a rider drawn up at the door,
Knock echoing, what he has in hand
Peremptory, urgently magnificent,
Orders, tidings, there is never time.

So warm, so clear at the line of corded velvet
The marvelous flesh, its faster rise and fall,
Sigh in the throat, the mouth fallen open,
The knees fallen open, the heavy flag of the skirt
Urgently gathered together, quick, so quick,
Black lacquer, bronze, blue velvet, gleam
Of pewter in a tarnishing light, the book
Of the body lying open at the last leaf,
Where the spirit and the bride say, Come,
As from deep mirrors on the hinted wall
Beyond these shadows, a small flame sprouts.