Launcelot: perfect body of light.
He dreams of us moving like shadows
to tempt him from his mistress’ rose.
On his breast her token, freaked with white.
In our domain his perfect body wanes.
The palimpsest of memory’s wreckage
dissolves the balanced, ornamental page.
Dream’s perfection, inviolate, alone remains.
Chronology’s demon banished from his dream
his vows flail at scent and labor,
he kneels at the altar and blasphemes.
He sleeps unbewitched, a dog at the door,
nailed to his adultery, bestial word that redeems.
Sisters, release him, he will escape no more.