from An Apogee
The sun is cast into the sea.
The mountains writhe in ecstasy.
The dome inflamed by God’s own hand;
the women-locusts hunt for blood
beneath the ruin of a cross
abased by the iconoclast.
The bride at last shall wait no more
amid the dark and silver night,
burst headlong into wedding rooms
star-lit, and at length drink of light.
The screaming of the chariots
midst Wyrmwood and the lakes
the fairy-baby meek and mild
from all ignominy awakes.