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— bony hired hands

There is no frieze with
me dancing on it. Renoir,
like Hollywood, passed
me by. I have no spark, no
flint, no wheel to measure
the heavens. There are no
heaven, singular or plural.
What rite, what coven, what
belief would encompass this?
The sextant is broken, the
compass thrown down. Let
the maps drivel three-fold
down the page. What will
clean the mud from these
wounds? What will look upon
this flesh without horror? If
there’s a pastoral scene
with me in it, burn the hay,
salt the earth, let flesh-eating
bacteria consume the rest. I
look for no wily shepherdess,
no bucolic wood-man with
a cock out to here. Even chaos bores.