Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest . . .
Make no mistake— even the priest is
tethered to a pole and can travel only as far
as his leash will let him. The poem
can travel only as far as the finger traversing
its field. I can go only as far as age despite
ceremony. Face it bold lover
we’re piping ditties of no tone— making
cruel disputes with enigmas over steak bones
our intertwining monologues rising into an
ether of their own disintegration. The only
option we’ve got is to enter the coliseum the
studio lot the sacrificial clearing with a breezy
manner—to face the solemn obtuse intoxicated
or whatever gods blissfully disarming
in our ignorance of how it ends.