The Gaudy Image

The manner of speaking is barbarous.
Coarse words, harsh incantations
that chafe like wolves' tongues
on the thighs of angels. The manner
of speaking is the way of his life. The
unhesitant, uncluttered flow of words.
Their power, the heat of them,
on which your fingers burn, or else
your body, pressed against him. In
the beginning there was silence. Though
there were words, you would not reach
into the sticky air & pick them out.
In the beginning there was your silence.
& now another, more deathly, more
strained, through which the worms of
revelation crawl, waiting to be discovered,
like pornographic pictures of yourself
you didn't admit existed. How to explain them
in soft words? or make light of them? Or even
try. Now you can only wait for the end,
your brittle fingers tilted towards the moon
to soften them. In failing light / a last
deception. The rails of your life glint
in the far distance, the scarred tracks. Mem-
ory? Common wounds? Or an old record,
worn thin, out of which some even thinner voice
rises to lick your cunt with its dry tongue.
Memory. & in the wind are faded flowers.

1967