Rain falls at angles against cliff and crevice,
Eating further into the mountain’s limestone,
Leaving gaping punchbowls – a debt on loan
To drink up accounts of time’s inchmeal voice.
And no soft whispers come from the forest –
Instead, summer and autumn winds sound off
In clashing private battles, cough for cough,
Cancerous at least – emphysemic at best.
We take our stand at death’s own windy doors
Pitching tents for Faun and Dryad’s alliance –
That ancient, hauntingly sweet reliance
On intimacy, mine and these sister-whores’.
Ah, seasons! I am all too prone to love –
Have given up the habit of mysteries…
It all ends this month with last rites and manes
Cashed out on bottom lines over and above
An increasingly urban populace
Who eschew the bloodbath of ritual
To trade in tooth and horn, with bear and bull
Embraced as idylls of the marketplace.
Part I was a good standalone; I don’t think this one is. But I won’t go back and analyze its strengths and weaknesses until the rest of the sequence is posted and this piece’s place in the overall design becomes clear.