(For L B)
Trembling in its trap of bone.
Ringing with the fleeing horses’ beat.
The sand against his skin.
The slow gather of threats about him.
The fire of wounded eyes,
The day-bright accusation.
Not now fat with righteousness,
Articulates a dry rattle,
Tocsin for excuses fled
And arguments as empty as
The last flicker of earthly lust is ash
And dust the taste of treasured praises.
Blood on the winning steel
Has turned to rust,
The feast of self-esteem become a crust
And all joy,