I’ll start again from the first footprints, the first nail scratches.
Sand-hewn swirls surrounded by spume.
On high, winged things pillory the truth.
Would that a wish rinsed human nature,
and the body of clay emitted bars of gold of devotional gifts
My short skirt hides my groin, snow-white and plump
with fine pink folds, soft and damp, with a dripping light
The soles’ throbbing beats time, restless beat
by pacing to and fro along the pavement.
Let us all together pitch into the waking sound,
each one a dead drunk Lazarus
On the table a slice of bread cut by an unknown hand,
and a jug of water standing in motion