Agares
He...cometh up in
the form of an old fair Man,
riding upon a
Crocodile, carrying a Goshawk upon his fist,
and yet mild in
appearance.
He maketh them
to run that stand still, and bringeth back runaways.
He teaches all
Languages or Tongues presently.
He hath power
also to destroy Dignities both Spiritual and Temporal,
and causeth
Earthquakes. He was of the Order of Virtues.
Old
men and memory
runaways and deserters
what
good these nobles of hell
their
menageries?
Say
it is a memory house.
The
crocodile is the sewer
where
we crawled into the hill
listening
for rising water
the
great dusty room under the levy
the
dim sunlight streaming in a single shaft
the
fear and panic of the lower brain
on
his fist,
the
hawks that circled in the thermal air
in
the river-valley bowl
the
hilltop above the trainyards
where
the names of the dead are spraypainted
one
atop the other
where
the ashes of old fires
shelter
under the overcropping rock
where
the wind bites clear of breath
Who
then, the old man?
Is
it Moon, arguing with the angels
his
hands jammed in his pockets
or
spread out, gingerly
on
a pawnshop piano?
His
head filled with purple?
Or
myself,
greyer
each day
each
day closer to my own private dark
these
are the tongues I teach.
these
are the runaways I return
those
run down into the dark beneath the hill
those
names painted where the hawks circle
this
is the earth I shake.
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