In the high tomb, the windows blackened A solitary body stretches on its pallet. The hush of broken candles, glistening Attend the vault of remotest night, listening 5 To the exquisite montage of the moon decieved By that which ancienter vocables had revealed. Strumpets came bearing like tom-cats in The bronzen flesh of him, of him; Primping ladies laid the ledgendary body out, 10 Quip on quip, in storied profusion. Prepare the touncing oils, maids, to scent Vestigal joys that pip the corpse. Some backwards catastrophy of the stars Looked in, like a forgetful mother, 15 At the voice laid out in state, hugely blue, Hacked out as it was from one immenser slab While sleepy birds unconscious of their pains pursue The day's spontaneous symphony, beneath A watery dawn that washes out a sink 20 Full of the moon's bleary oils.
From the collection "Burning Byzantium"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.