Semele's Son
Semele’s son
Squandered to the riot buds in a field,
His privates blown, a no-man
Dowsed and spelled:
The unplotted torso swells; in the round
Of the year he rolls, reason enough for those
Revolving set-pieces, and in demand
Season after season, every woman his.
Autre temps.
What so eager happens now?
What neighbour hill is begging me to die,
Offering endless resurrections?
Now spring is harnessed to a commonplace,
Who’ll build a house in Cancer? What boy’s face
In empty stubble can autumn contemplate?
Page(s) 12
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