Freeze my blood till I have rose-red
wood in my veins:
Blood they say is
the thought of the brain.
Place me in ice and
exorcise that Sylvan Beast.
Yet, though freezing, freezing
froze ⎯ and thought impaired ⎯
it still remains. Doctor’s griping
hands: Warm. Healer’s chants:
Insensate.
Rhymes and
sermons.
Priestly white and echoes of,
“Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust,”
from graven tomb;
children’s voices ⎯ so
recognizable ⎯ chant:
Bleeding leaks you Red,
Freezing stops you Dead.
Strange intonations ⎯
Though, in thoughtless expanse
they may easily have not
said anything at all.
I preferred lacklustre solidity:
but thought, they say
