Pastoral


The dark lambs trampled over the quilt of paisleys and flounces,

the quilt over the body where it lay.

The dark lambs trampled, their clover pastures nipped to the quick,
dirt in their muzzles as they nudged there, wondering.

Behind the lambs the castle burned and the moat glistened slick with        gasoline.

Behind the lambs the paper cranes folded themselves a parachute to        catch the wind.

There is only room enough for one still body in the bed.

When the body is carried away the bed becomes lighter.

When the rings and golden teeth, when the gold pin through the hip,
when the gold stone in the pit of the blood sack is taken away, the body
becomes lighter, the body can rise from its trappings, spread

like a mist over the fields like a hot air balloon rising
with its flame jetting and its sand bags tossed, and the grains like a mist

drifting from the bags as the bags drift, up over the fields
where the dark lambs trample in their fury for the flowers.

Up where the silver mobile rotates in the clouds
with its trinkets of tears, the dark tears tarnished on the dark wool.

The woman who cards the wool—
the dark lambs lick the salt from her

softly underneath the web of night, softly as the sand sifting down.

The dark lambs nuzzle from her palm.

You here, underneath the golden dome, the cinquefoils, and the fluted        pilasters,

underneath the windows fanning like a peacock’s tail and the windows        arching like a peacock’s plume,

is it you that’s waiting for your bride?



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