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.