Let us start as we plan to go on. For
where there is conspiring resistance, where there are
plot-points to morality. In fact a form
of recklessness scribbled on stained flyleaves.
But remiss, later accused of healing the
human race without first asking
permission; this, in the palace of green wreckage
with silent courtesans arranged in the vestibule.
Why be afraid? If touched by Diana’s arrow, ask for
more. No, not a daughter’s faith or insignificant
suffering of imbalance. No, but staggering exhausted
on the saturate shore. No, but no.
But blood? Blood flowing on July wind? How is it
blood? How is it wind? As we shrug into shrouds
before slamming every door. As the echoes in
the rattle. As they rattle through broken transoms.
Why the invention of mood, a tragedy
we could have bypassed?
