As the Deer Pants for the Water

The testicular fortitude it must took to pilfer a deer
from Sir Thomas Lucy with hometown eyes mere miles away,
testosterone giggles at twilight,
England’s frosted air, the violet chill and prison fear
glimpsing daddy bailiff walking the line with no sway
head shaking, scolding—learn you no stealing, no taking—no fight

years later London, a tavern uncomfortably warm, the candle a muse
and she the dark sex’s wild wench wielding death down—
the candle burns and he too
much for beauty standing, or sitting, his voice I lose
in bar talk and my rings the table rap. See, I give my life, my frown,
my poem too for ere long we must utter Adieu! Adieu!

On these lines I swear there is thirst in hell unquenched now like a doe, a stag
panting dry heat sulphur shakes and sweats by the calm, cool water’s edge.
All lessons learned in sleeping
that it wasn’t about taking—cast one eye up to the brimstone crag,
that it wasn’t even giving—the molten shrieks on the far off ledge.
It was simply the time to taste the tears of the weeping.