The Plain
What voice have ye
When you have approached the
Dark Tower,
Challenged its master,
Offered your soul,
And been greeted by a dried-up raisin
of a servant
Who squeaks, his high-pitched voice
Clearly from the human side
of the grave,
"No one home."
I turned my horse, seeking some road
out;
Looking back, I found the
Tower disappeared
As though its stones had been
ripples in the air;
Just desert before and behind,
Corpses, drying in the heat,
hanged from cactus-limbs;
Vultures gathered to feed;
And Eliot, complaining of hyacinths,
wandered past.
I laughed.
Anselm appeared from behind
a rock,
"Dare ye mock the Gods?"
Naught to do but smile,
"Nonsense, 'tis they who make
sport with me.
'Tis far better to join in
the humor
Than to rail at those who
might deal with us as gnats."
He scuttled off, scowling.
Then there were dancers
And butterflies
And dew as rich as manna falling
on the deep green grass;
And fruit trees,
Figs,
And olives.
And I saw Pan playing at his harp
-- he paused,
"What happened to your quest?"
I searched for my tongue,
"Destiny was not at home."
"Shepherd girls," he suggested,
"Unbathed and stinking as much of
themselves
As from the lanolin of sheep,
Their matted hair hiding ticks,
Fleas feeding in the creases
of their skin,
So warm and lusty you dare not turn
them down."
She kicked up her bare feet, dancing
as much as running;
The mud reached half-way to
her knees.
She raised her skirt,
Threw it clear above her head;
Her breasts were soft, her body
warm;
We found pillows of grass on the
rocky ground.
The itch of crab lice
Is the laughter of the Gods.
11-6-99
