by Robert Pinsky

    ". . . our language， forged in the dark by  centuries of violent pressure， underground，  out of the stuff of dead life."

    Thirsty and languorous¹ after their long black sleep

    The old gods crooned and shuffled² and shook their heads.

    Dry， dry. By railroad they set out

    Across the desert of stars to drink the world

    Our mouths had soaked

    In the strange sentences we made

    While they were asleep： a pollen-tinted

    Slurry of passion and lapsed⁴

    Intention， whose imagined

    Taste made the savage⁵ deities⁶ hiss⁷ and snort.

    In the lightless carriages， a smell of snake

    And coarse fur， glands⁸ of lymphless breath

    And ichor， the avid⁹ stenches of

    Immortal¹⁰ bodies.

    Their long train clicked and sighed

    Through the gulfs of night between the planets

    And came down through the evening fog

    Of redwood canyons¹¹. From the train

    At sunset， fiery¹² warehouse¹³ windows

    Along a wharf¹⁴. Then dusk， a gash¹⁵ of neon：

    Bar. Black pinewoods， a junction¹⁶ crossing， glimpses

    Of sluggish¹⁷ surf among the rocks， a moan

    Of dreamy forgotten divinity calling and fading

    Against the windows of a town. Inside

    The train， a flash

    Of dragonfly wings， an antlered brow.

    Black night again， and then

    After the bridge， a palace on the water：

    The great Refinery——impossible city of lights，

    A million bulbs tracing its turreted¹⁸

    Boulevards and mazes¹⁹. The castle of a person

    Pronounced alive， the Corporation： a fictional²⁰

    Lord real in law.

    Barbicans and torches

    Along the siding where the engine slows

    At the central tanks， a ward²¹

    Of steel palisades， valved and chandeliered.

    The muttering gods

    Greedily penetrate²² those bright pavilions——

    Libation of Benzene， Naphthalene， Asphalt，

    Gasoline， Tar³： syllables²³

    Fractioned and cracked from unarticulated

    Crude， the smeared²⁴ keep of life that fed

    On itself in pitchy darkness when the gods

    Were new——inedible， volatile²⁵

    And sublimated²⁶ afresh to sting

    Our tongues who use it， refined from oil of stone.

    The gods batten on the vats²⁷， and drink up

    Lovecries and memorized Chaucer， lines from movies

    And songs hoarded²⁸ in mortmain： exiles' charms，

    The basal or desperate distillates of breath

    Steeped， brewed²⁹ and spent

    As though we were their aphids， or their bees，

    That monstered up sweetness for them while they dozed³⁰.

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