The ghostly dealer, heavy with fly-netting
Over his head, across these hills in darkness,
Stumbling
in
cut-glass goblets, lacquered cups,
And other products of his dreamy midden
Penciled with light and guarded by the flies.
For there are flies, of course. A dynamo
Composed, by thousands, of our ancient black
Retainers, hums here day and night, steady
As someone telling beads, the hum becoming
A high whine at any disturbance; then,
Settled again, the flies shine in the sun
Like oil-drops, or are invisible as night,
By night.
All this continually smoulders,
Crackles, and smokes with mostly invisible fires
Which, working deep, rarely flash out and flare,
And never finish. Nothing finishes.
Among the flies, the purifying fires,
The hunters by night, acquainted with the art
Of our necessities, and the new deposits
That each day wastes with treasure, you may say
There should be ratios. You may sum up
The results, if you want results. But I have seen
Wild sea-birds, drawn to the carrion and flies,
Assembled in some numbers here, their wings
Shining with light, their flight enviably free,
Their music marvelous, though sad, and strange.
Howard Nemerov
PASTORALE PARISIENNE
You who taught fear
its trafficking wealth, deft
in the courts and the slums like a rose
in its petals and thorns, to this
you have brought me?
