A Modern Psalm

Here he comes, old piston-legs,
His thighs and calves
Bruised by the bloody pulp.

Grape, gripe, bitter seed
Sink in carnal red. Look—
Footprints rise from the polished lake
Where all our names are written.

Shrinking puddles, maroon reflecting
And out of each a legion springs
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