"Impetus"

If ortolan be eaten, what foul grace

Could truly rise from gold, her silenced song?

Clandestine chimes of blinding voice or lyre,

From eyes unopened, lips in waiting, still.

I’m beckoned to caesura, blushing sin;

God, shield your sight from raw, unfaithful praise.

With three white napkins covering their heads,

And one, to call my name, set on the chair,

What fills the silver domes, adornèd end,

Like sunlit myrrh, a jub’lant chant, a mirth.

What impetus have I to take my place?

I take a step, my seat begins to dance

In taunting tweets, “O Killer, Eat! Rejoice!”

The pale deflectors lour gray, then black;

Three robèd figures tense, a stir, a turn.

I pray they shall not lift their heads befrilled,

Unveil their piercing gaze, or tap their toes.

But rather, wish I clocks to subtly lapse;

A moment would I relish, calm and broad.

O Lord, I’ve pondered panes of amber light;

O God, my body waits, I yearn for flight.

I’ve made my choice, unwonted, bright and clear;

I’ve signed my name, in flaming ink, in fear.

My body perched atop my eyrie-chair,

My head enveloped, shielded beak prepared,

The chirp of cloches raisèd, we embark

Feet-first into the culmination gay.