Blistered, beaten, Kali's foot, brute, staring
at the ascetic's crescent tongue
The Ganges shrunken to a pale comb of water
while the petals of ash huddle to form
a face
Blistered, beaten, Kali's foot, brute, staring
at the ascetic's crescent tongue skiddy as ever
beneath the enamel vigil of truth-
Truth?
Which is which? Each to his own! There in the dust
the abandoned skin, handkerchief of leather,
twitches in the wind, says:
Wipe
the licit bead! Gather your ghosts to pore
over neither bread nor death by bread,
but a bacchanalian ode to the road,
O you,
who are made between black and black!
