Two honest men beside him, in tuxedos,
work his arms like cranks. He speaks to each in turn
feeling a fool, apologies for everything —
but exactly what he can’t recall.
Amazingly the rope winds up inside him,
his Kundalini risen at last! But it goes
up the brain-stem and crashes through the cranium like an egg,
does the rope-trick, keeping on, then turns
about a gallows beam, which suddenly is there.
By now he’s in shock, the sun on the East horizon
is a great fish mouthing at him …
The rope keeps on, travelling across and down
to another’s hands. From there images return
along the rope — of the body plummeting
the legs swinging just so slightly forwards
until the rope cracks them straight as railway lines,
the nerves going out along his spine
fluorescing greenly like an LED read-out
the sex-spine and its smaller spur
erupting from the ganglion. Brainless philanderer!
He knows it is all wrong — it is the spirit
dying, going rigid and erupting, spurting
out — and the rope is not there, and he
is not hung, but is drawn up, swinging
where the crossbow isn’t, above the crowd
above the world which when he looks down
goes blank and massive and powerful as the ocean.
Looking down he sees it is empty, it is nothing.
Unless he is dead, he was dreaming;
if that was dream, this is waking.
He is alone and full of grief. He yearns for
perfect animals, perfect plants,
imperfect humans. And so he gets them.