A revised edition, more true to the author's original intent.



LAUNCELOT AND THE BOAR

In all ways pursuit turned out to be
shorter
than I would have thought.
I lie
on my back feeling
the hair of the earth
brittle against me
and hearing the
steam spilling from you
into our
cold chapel of air.

Now lying in the gaunt wood
this man will not think of you.
He will grit his teeth,
whisper
I am not maimed,
I am not maimed.

You must be
a wet haunch hung
in a dark pantry,
not a gale of hot breath,
not a crispness
against my lips,
not a red blot
on my pale leg.

Thoughts on growing older.


AMBITION

For when I yammer
of Araby silks, beneath
my tongue simmer
visions of
the motes fluttering
in your morning tea,
and my plough rusticating
under our
tall sweet mulberry.

A working draft of:

LAUNCELOT AND THE BOAR


Mad have I been
licking the wet loam
for you in the gaunt wood,
cocked for your dark blur
amid the brambles.

In all ways pursuit turned out to be
shorter
than I would have thought.
I lie
on my back feeling
the hair of the earth
brittle against me
and hearing the
steam spilling from you
into our
cold chapel of air.

For a moment my
nostrils swoon amid
a hot gale of your breath
and your crisp flesh
against my lips—but now you are
a wet haunch hung
in a dark pantry. For all
that your heart brast
to splinters upon my chest,

I have gained
only
your flaky blood tangled
in my beard.