By Nirina Mignon
Err dolefully, dappling thy path
With rues o’ ruin, wicks and chaff
Behind ears by lies and harvest disabused,
Being the ignorance of men: a swallow loosed
From a loom’s knots and rites now rote;
With sequela in censers, mute to the captive note
Of sap and hair in nightly holocaust,
The petaled pupa on taut yew budding
To shed; numbing to cause; gnawing to fast;
That we may drink again from the moon,
Slaked by murder. Unsexed and curled,
He is as the summer is hewn.