A Modern Psalm (alternate version)

Here he comes, old piston-legs,
thighs and calves
bruised by bloody pulp.

Grape, gripe, bitter seed
sink in carnal red. Look!
Ribs of clay under glass, the lake
where all our names are written!

…shrinking ruby footprint-puddles
—yet from each a thousand spring,
shouting in quickening cadences,
wailing and rejoicing at once!

They climb to where the air is thin
but blood is thickest.
They have no need of meat but drink
—tens of thousands to a single beat

churning in the muffled thicket:
a distant thudding, etching fine
lines of blood in slate.


© Dan Goorevitch