the myth of satan (part II)
peter schwartz

No one thinks
of widths of mirrors
yet she looks this way
away, as it
names itself june
all winter
o enter her
wandering eyes
just to fall in love


O feast of acceptance
O great glass opiates

Surrender no splendor
to the alien erosion
Of dark witnesses
has no anthem; wingless

And him as powerful.

the eye
A circle!
the plate
A circle!
the coin
A circle!
the end of the doorknob
A circle! A circle!
the laughter of children at play

O self-eating intimacy
O crucible storm
O wanderlust let go too soon
Thy forest of fingerips
will carry them gently
enough to breath the moon

She is made of the most obvious pathos
She is made of returns and embassies
Kaleidoscopes colliding only with lilacs
only the juniper I want to remember

He contemplates his toes like salamanders
He does not care nor need to care what makes them
He dances himself a bridge
and crosses like elephant vines:

"Was this what you conspired? in whites
the size of fires, those towering totems
that sprung across teh lawns?"

Dawns had reasons hurt
by riots
ten thousand year teas
that never brewed
crude dead pumpkins
that had to have had

With this sadness in mind
They find:
rosettes and rosaries
soap and ovals
stange costumes that meant nothing
till worn

yet mourn not for the power of returns!
They bring such perfumed things:

Her necklace
His journal
Her talisman
His pipe
Her collection of tepid postcards
matchbooks that strike him as odd
in the middle of the night
She strikes!