(in memoriam Basil Bunting, 1900-1985)
The old legs grown thin,
stanced still for a goat-like thrusting amble,
the hips and knees a brr of castanets
muted in folds of lamb’s wool.
The gilded nubs poke up,
obscene through snowy curls,
streaked with rust
as though mercy might totter
at the slit tongue of amnesia.
The names come down garbled
or not at all.
Firm as plums, gummed and shining
with drool, the stiff handling
where memory takes over
and fear lies ginger-down
its intimate smells beside selected
nakedness, the young
and priest-approved girls.
With arms and legs and lacing fingers
they stitch him like a wound
between them. Mouths, breasts,
and thighs the moving shell
to house and coat some warmth
upon his icy shudderings.
His body hair stands up
like a silver line of archers,
raised by the untouching nearness
of girlish fingertips and lips,
the fan of breath and eyelash.
He breathes in Sheba,
exhales Gaza, his matted
wheeze a sound of royal dread.