Ganymede mounted the dung beetle.
Iridescent towards heaven they rose,
Flitting splay-wings: blue-black, green-gold
In bracing night-breeze the wincing
Stars shone on the boy who dreamed of bruised grapes.
He dreamed of their leaves and dreamed of their pulp.
There would be grapes in heaven unlike
The grapes on earth, its nectar sloshing in flagons,
Kraters filled to the brim, Among
filigreed thrones of solid white-gold,
ensconced in gathering ether.
Romulus, Remus, suckle in the dark
Lupercal, teething mother she-wolf’s
Tumescent dug, tiny hands groping rough
Blood-matted fur, belly cold in the dark
Lupercal, the walls perspire deep
Into the craggy teeth of the dank,
Humid grotto, fingers seek in the dark
A blood-clotted bulb, and quietly weep
Alone. While others wring a final jet
Of warm sour milk from a spent teat,
He sobs, knowing the world will not have
Him. A child of morning will come forth,
A child of noise, of battle, of glory, of death.
The other, supine, will dream in a shallow grave.
-- What does ambrosia taste of?
-- It tastes of breeze.
He touches a hand to the column,
No prints...no breath...alabaster.
The sage taking glass steps,
Puce robe rustling,
Rustling resolved
In jasmine-laced
Tintinnabulations…
-- Watch, the ether spreads.
Carry in the stillness,
The scent of chimes…
-- The last mortal to enter these realms,
Quaffed the lotus elixir...most indecorously.
Enveloping…
Noxious…
-- His face! I remember!
Darkness ahead.
