Dancing on, around or near to the ceiling,
A slim, shapely lady. With her faceless silver,
She is to and fro from me and she knows
That I know her purpose.
Lower, lower. Lower still, you have come,
And brought such company
That by their presence I am fitful, coy,
Though at first wary of their bounties.
The little lines of silver, not quite seams.
Coming along, lonely, I nose their gifts.
Four babies, babies I know. They could be anyone’s.
The boys, holding the silver, bigger but still small.
They could be anyone’s.
All but one. White, sponge, never living.
That the rest would thread their lines with life whilst he, the last,
Chose the staff of life itself.
That the rest would kill is natural,
And all will kill, and feed and lust.
Why, everything is so vital on this other side.
But he, who baits with bread, does not want me.
One day an infernal hunger will become me,
Like the need for unquantifiable destruction,
I can bring about my own end.
Or his end.
He, he and his bread. They will laugh
At his peace. His cheeks will pierce with shame.
Little pacifist, for you I will pierce myself
Biting on her, pulling her to my small mouth,
Would be akin to killing that small artfulness in myself.
The artfulness of knowing
Precisely when and how you might die.
If you put your hands on me –
When you put your hands on me
You will not always know what is beneath them.
Playing me, I play you by my speed
By my dexterity. You hang me from your arm
A prize to be handed,
Or, no mercy, stolen.