Now changed. None come to Carthage. No cauldrons, all love
comes without oily sacrements. Skin breathes cooler air.
And light was there and two cliff swallows hung and swooped
for flies, audible heat from the field where steers fed.
I'm going to Stonehenge to recant, or from the manure pile
behind this shed I'm going to admit to a cow I've lied.
He writes with a putty knife and goo, at night the north star
hangs on the mountain peak like a christmas tree ornament.
On the table the frozen rattlesnake thaws, the perfect club!
the perfeot crime! soon now to be skinned for my hatband.
