The Briar Rose & the Prince
of Hares, what's there
in the periphery, stalking
the wetlands, the childhood forest
which was less frightening
than the cyan light
of the flickering picture
windows, axons of the wild
hunt, human child, the grave
deeper than flame, the threaded
tendrils a night net, a fate
not so much tragic as classic,
so far away from the human
resources, the dug hole
as though anything could be
hid, the whole dug like a placard,
no pearls for these eyes, but
pits, a planter what becomes
remains, fertilizer for nobody's
bed of violets, no, they are
smothered, grown over,
a colony of dung beetles
rolling what's left of you
downhill, burying it,
burrowing in so that provisions
may be made, the new breed
on its way, the pathways
cleared to brood.
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