by Clayton Eshleman

    Patters， paters， Apollo globes， sound

    breaking up with silence， coals

    I can still hear， entanglement¹ of sense pools，

    the way a cave might leak perfume——

    in the Cro-Magnons went， along its wet hide walls，

    as if a flower in， way in， drew their leggy

    panspermatic bodies， spidering over

    bottomless hunches²， groping toward Persephone's fate：

    to be quicksanded by the fungus³ pulp⁴ of Hades' purple hair

    exploding in their brains.

    They poured their foreheads into the coals and corrals

    zigzagged⁵ about in the night air——

    the animals led in crossed

    a massive vulva incised before the gate，

    the power that came up from it was paradise， the power

    the Cro-Magnons bequeathed to us：

    to make an altar of our throats.

    The first words were mixed with animal fat，

    wounded men tried to say who did it.

    The group was the rim⁶ of a to-be-invented wheel，

    their speech was spokes⁷， looping over，

    around， the hub of the fire， its silk of us，

    its burn of them， bop we dip， you dip，

    we dip to you， you will dip to us， Dionysus

    the plopping， pooling words， stirred

    by the lyre gaps between the peaks of flame，

    water to fire， us to them.

    Foal-eyes， rubbery， they looped

    back into those caves whose walls could be strung

    between their teeth， the sticky soul material pulled to

    The sides by their hands， ooh

    what bone looms⁸ they sewed themselves into， ah

    what tiny male spiders they were

    on the enormous capable of devouring⁹ them

    female rock elastic¹⁰ word！

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