Towering

Did we know it existed?

Shall we climb up within it?

Travel with an armed guard, then,

Benedick’s stong arm, and his girl’s meekness,

Artemis to the fore, Freyja to the aft,

Whither the winged lion would speak with you.


At Joyous Gard, I am a frequent guest.

They tend to put me next to Bors the good,

With Guinevere opposite. Another another’s,

And I care elsewhere, and so am safe here.


The plastic arras, it was apposite

For murder or for jinks, not for a clutch.

But we had left some happy ones

To search about the pretty night

Preferring ourselves to do as plants do,

To rustle.


The vultures may not eat but speak.

The white bird sent me out to pine,

And watched me netted in the reek

Of chugged up, patronised red wine.


What kind of thing is this? Feather, fake, fur,

Two persons or three or a pangoline?

The Queen shrugs off revolt, incarnated

In such a beautiful and noteless sound.

God Save Her with a golden liturgy,

God and I and another sirens serve.