Down the stones, and the doe’s form became more ghostly—

Pale rider, lost in the woods where I was lost. And I stood

In the dark until I closed my eyes. And then I stood no more.

Masque

My foot bleeds on the rocks

Of the shallow stream. The crows

Thick above me and at their backs

The larger gravebirds. This

Is a mean task, this business

Of burying oneself before one

Is dead. The shovel always

Breaks, the weather worsens,

The spot chosen proves to be

The wrong spot, and the words,

The words of mercy one must

Mutter, possess no mercy

For the flesh: Not with peace,

Not with peace but with a sword

Is the flesh stripped back,

Its many masks flayed off,

Each mask more extravagant

Than the last, like Bartholomew’s

Beautiful and deadly hats,

No end in sight, no fair sight

Of the bared head, the bare stage

Upon whose wooden boards

We must play with passion

Our two parts: Lazarus undone

And that goodfellow Christ.

Hardfellow Christ. Oh do not lose

Faith. Work it out. Work it out.

The chief crow performs with panache

His task as smart backdrop

For the naked body dishing dirt

With a broken spade. Brokered wings

And a beaten heart. Dear God! to be

More than a light-hearted jest,

Or a hard-hearted jest. My crow,

My lark, my winsome wren,

My chough, oh sweet-lipped one

Who keeps me to a task

I do not want, let me be more

Than a dove-witted fool. The light

Strikes down between the trees.

The shovel strikes dirt. If the seam

Is good. If the seam is good. Then

The heart will put on for a moment

Its royal robes and become a grave man

Standing before an open crypt

With an air of such command

The stained burial wrappings

Of one much loved, and maligned,

And many days dead, will drop

Away. The self step blind

From its watery grave. And there

Will be: No time. Nor crow.

Nor Lazarus. Nor Christ.

Nor the hand that writes this.

III

The Dragon

The bees came out of the junipers, two small swarms

The size of melons; and golden, too, like melons,

They hung next to each other, at the height of a deer’s breast,

Above the wet black compost. And because

The light was very bright it was hard to see them,

And harder still to see what hung between them.

A snake hung between them. The bees held up a snake,

Lifting each side of his narrow neck, just below

The pointed head, and in this way, very slowly

They carried the snake through the garden,

The snake’s long body hanging down, its tail dragging

The ground, as if the creature were a criminal

Being escorted to execution or a child king

To the throne. I kept thinking the snake

Might be a hose, held by two ghostly hands,