It was you . . .

It was you in the dark
Who lay on the bed,
Who played with the dead,
Who suckled the teat -
Who ate music and meat.
It was you with the hand
On the pendulum as it swang
And summoned the chance
To live, love and dance:
It was you. 

It was you who saw visions
Of satellites and revisions,
Of history and time
As your poured out your mind
Into glassine bags and vessels:
You who climbed roses growing
On Mount Olympus’s trestle!
Who opened the grave
Who dug deep and was brave:
It was you. 

It was you who went running
After moonbows and sun-dogs
After teaspoons and hot rocks
After ancient minds embalmed
And rough seas uncalmed;
It was you who threw yourself
On the north wind, 
The summer storm 
And listened to the hawk sing
On dappled lawns, pouring 
Powder from the horn
And packing the barrel
As you raised a shot to 
Old Captain Farrell
And to the whiskey in the jar. 
It was you
Who are so near
And have come so far. 

It was you and you only . . . 
But then I was lonely
And wanted to play
So I kicked off the shackles
And emerged back out
Into the broad light of day.
And I ask you this, 
Most faithfully, my
Friend of the gutter, 
Devoted to the glory of
The filthy and unholy:

What rose can deny the fruits
Of her flowering?
What season can deny the harvest
Of the chateaus and the dowry
That’s spent before the cloth 
Is even blood-stained and rent?
What bullet can deny the power
Of living under the starting gun?
What planet can refuse to revolve
Around the turning of the sun? 

Dare we say that . . . 

The wine was all drunk before
The bride beneath the surface
Dared to dunk all of her
Stale-breadcrumb sins
Into the oil and the water
As she fled to be the
Companion of the muse
Instead of some 
Dead Jacob’s daughter? 

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