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?