The Scream

There was the sun on the wall - my childhood's
Nursery picture. And there was my gravestone
Which shared my dreams, and ate and drank with me happily.

All the day the hawk perfected its craftsmanship
And even through the night the miracle persisted.

Mountains lazed in their smoky camp.
Worms in the ground were doing a good job.

Flesh of bronze, stirred with a bronze thirst,
like a newborn baby at the breast,
Slept in the sun's mercy.

And the inane weights of iron
That come suddenly crashing into people, out of nowhere,
Only made me feel brave and creaturely.

When I saw the little rabbits with their heads crushed on roads
I knew I rode the wheel of the galaxy.

Calves' heads dew-bristled with blood on counters
Grinned like masks, and sun and moon danced.

And my mate with his face sewn up
Where they'd opened it to take something out
Raised a hand -

He smiled, in half-coma,
A stone temple smile.

Then I, too, opened my mouth to praise -

But a silence wedged in my gullet.

Like an obsidian dagger, dry, jag-edged,
A silent lump of volcanic glass,

The scream
Vomited itself.