Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,
lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen
suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,
cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate
in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre
the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier
of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows
and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.
Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.