She is walking her bride-beast to the edge.
She is taking words out of sockets in her wall
and planting them in her carpet.
There is a huge burst of sunfire from the gilt mirror
and the plaster ducks are seen over the west
in strict formation.
I am out of bounds, she says
and draws in the nets full of crisp dresses
and the canopy of stitched eyes.
She takes a cupful of dark patterns, noisy wine,
a pulpy finger and a book of gardens.
The stairs lead to an urn, the passage is an
infinite cradle of daggers.
This, she says, makes my skin itch, and burst
into chattering flames.
This, she says, is my oily ointment, made
for the dark.
And sits in her star, and wishes the papers,
and blows the tissues into roses.
From Second Aeon, final issue, 1974