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Bone Dance
The skull of the old man wears a
face that's a rose from the renewd Adam thrown.
Slack undulations fall,
radiant teachings from the gospel bone,
fragrance folded upon fragrance,
tone twisted within tone,-of gold,
cream, rose, blood, milk-a ruddy paroxysm
flowering from inertia.
Sweet Marrow!
it's the hidden urgency we begd to sing to us
that were a gathering of his children, bone
of his bone.
The pungent outflowing of dead mind
goes toward a dry music, a sapless alert
piping in which the stink / sticks, a
carne vale, the
old man capering before his makers,
stripd of idea.
The Day is my Lord, the Night is my Lord
It's fear of the Lord that informs
courage
to dance. Have you? O have you?
the old capering papa sings,
root to the true corybantic,
Fear of the Day, Fear of the Night?
x ok *
The old man is a cave of bones.
The old lady's a cave of bones.
Fear mixd with delight is glee-
fully a chalky face with
bloody redsmeard mouth
(human eyes)
we almost recognize,
heads that are drums,
fingers flutes... heh!
sings the old destitute-but he's no more than a figure cast
away into an everlasting cartoon of fathers-
have you such
phalanx of fear within the courageous hand that
music writes
love of the night, love of the day?