Down the gallows, fiery and cold
the raven does call
in rude awakening for the dead-cow stench
of the pendulum man
strung up, black-naked by yesterday’s vice.

Today I drink milk
from a cancerous breast,
one that does mend a mouth,
but swells the heart also.

Down the gallows, the children do praise
bucolic, bent backward; allegiance
to a broken neck.

And there lies a strange stillness in the air:
the rope-halo has coiled, the serpent eternal,
pulled taut by man’s laws and quick by his fear.

Today, God is laughing
at the newborn’s cry and
today God is laughing
at the folly of his growth,
and the folly of his death.

Here, the parable of the persistent widow
assaults the carcass of tomorrow,
And one has ended
from continuing the deluge,
and Christ crucified, upon Christ for causes
a battle contested
under the root of his tongue:

I have been a multitude of shapes,
before I assumed a consistent form.
I have been a noose, hurried over branches,
and those I call my hands.
I am the man on the limb, I am
judgment applauded and guilt forgotten.

And we hang our flags at half-mast.