[from The Church (9)]

Your face unravels like a poster. A huge vertical poster. An arena. A big fat-square fascist building. Or church. Communist posters. Proud reds and blacks. Inflamed horses. And soldiers.

And you——rippling. And brilliant. Everywhere. Beautiful. Ugly. In all your moods and phases. Changing and cruel.

Like a group——an arrangement——of lights switched on by reaching up and pulling on a cord.

A silver beaded cord.

You just close your hand round its wooden handle and it all stops. A carousel in a carnival. I keep seeing you.

Flowed through with darkness. Shining. Glorious.

I’m drenched in you. Collapsed in you. A big fat-square fascist building. A bird. Opening its wings.

Turning slowly. In your cold, steel power.