To a Boy Leading a Horse
Under a shudder of sun
A murmur of wood.
The opal sky impure as lead,
The air is gaunt and azure-sedged;
Combed with glass and mercury.
A marble tomb suspended.
Under the flesh of this sun
I fear for your tenderness, boy.
Though the wind is not more bronze
Than the crumpled ochre of your skin,
With the petal of your phallus
Outlined as the rest of your body
In chrome and creosote, your eyes imprinted
Wild with tarnished ash and flaking rock-flint —
What of you is permanent?
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