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Poetry

Gethsemane’s sleepers, be with me
If I sleep.

Hypnopomps to the cock’s crow,
To the olive grove’s

Dawnshadows’ undergnarl.

Skull-place, tricrossed, two-thieved hill,
Over-

Hang me if I wake.

 

The bed-world
Is the total part,

Unrememberable mnemonics
Muttered through the dream

(Now I lay me,
Tarry here awhile—

Now I lay me
Down—tarry here

With me awhile,
And wait, and watch—

Sleep-horde, sleep’s
Grace-hoard, reinterred, salt-preserved.

 

Anti-
Heliotropic
Garden-sleeper:
Somnotropic, thanatropic, oneirotrope—

It’s too late now, the waker said, sleep on, sleep on, the hour’s
Already at hand

 

Wash, Lord, your
Hands of me.
Take
The wine-sponge, myrrhed
And galled, vinegared,
At the sword’s tip, when I
Won’t thirst.

Take the rood, if I refuse
To stagger as you please.

Unloose me,
Unaccountably:

Barabbas me….

 

Let some mouthdoor
Be rolled from that

Not-for-years-
Entered

Sepulcher in me, white-
Mold-wallsplotched,
Stalactite-stabbed:
Let some eastering be

Done there, in the dripstone
Damp, let its days of deicide

Be westered, be dusked….


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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