| Lunar Mane As a mane of hair to a comb Or a cat to thunder, so the loose Chafing clothes charge the lady up And her fragrances pile at collar, cuffs and Hem of the skirt, like that low smell That comes off a lawn just before the rain falls; Low thunder and flashes or lightning Emitted by her in lunar cycle; the rich clouds Pass over the full moon; like an electrical engine That is made of flesh and blood, From the men a brooding tension that cannot earth Without her. She watches the retort of the bird’s beak Dropping shining seeds, fruit-wet. The seeds Polish their husks in the bird-guts, the clouds Hang unsatisfactorily, like crooked pictures, the plants, Striving for adjustment, turn about their centres; She now in riding-gear, animated with sweat of horses, Seeds of power glistening in the wet mane, Tossing out rainbows. The big wheels of the shelving wind As she leaps over the hedge of flowers that are opening, The crooked thundercloud as low as it dares … (A fly on my wrist reading my notes, like horse And rider in one, stout with eggs in its panniers And dabbing its tongue where my pulse beats.) Collection of the Artist | |
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