Light Fragile

Light is fragile now in this place
flickers pale beneath the moon’s
blue-bright face
till unabashed the Sorcerer King stands
over a grave in daylight,
his hands occluding all the stars
with a weird-wired electric light

With crags upon his brow
and power in his face
he makes the night a day
with a delicate, feline grace

The smell overpowers
and everything is clear
arisen of rotten flesh consumptive
of history’s dear-won years

Light in his eyes now
raising fingers he creates
worlds and a world therein
and within a mirror and a shade:
the Thunderbird descends
seeking the black-clad Maid

It eats the bull-corpse’s fetid smell
and returns to the Sorceror’s hands
as if it had not first flown from them
it returns there like unto a den

He throws the bird aloft
with a flick, a sable toss

It eats the light
and flies inside, up arms and bones
To heart it bends its flight
until it echoes, breathing from dyadic mouth
The Sorcerer’s voice its channel on this
wronged night:

Orison, hail! The Buffalo Bones shake the root of the world.
I plant, so I sew. I sew, so I whirl.
I am the bird inside: the under-surge
I am the soul’s revision: the erstwhile first
a crowding, a dirge, a winged urge!

I watched the beasts fall, one by one,
until none remained at all
till the crooked spirit conquered
and the towers grew too tall

And you, I watch you Queens and Kings devoured
by myths
of so much power
by legends
of strange deeds and hours
by the wind-blown rifts
birthed from your weakness
to the West you give an eternal gift

A hard, hard wind shall blow this day
Yes, a hard, hard wind shall blow this very hour

So sung, he collapses to the ground
where he lays his hands upon the Earth and digs
looking for the black-clad child
the Emperor’s Diamond Maid
who is not to be found

He digs until the light at last sinks in deep
and above him again the darkness seeps
below: light impregnates all the hollow

On his lightless earth now again it is night
And the reverse has become the right
He sings this to the Prayerful Eye
He sings this with a windy might:

Oh piebald eye. Oh lidded eye. You’re mine.
Within you I spy, scrye the hour, the morrow
and it is mine, as I am the North
as I am the first to have spoken
as I am the first on this Earth
as I am the Blue Prince’s chosen first

He stands then to dance
and all but he stand still
sit we with hands unbent
and crowns unbowed
round the council fire
and the buffalo corpse

The dance rears clockwise
round then back
back back hands
raised to the sky,
blood upon his brow
fire in his eyes
and all his technology behind him

The world vanishes
from we Unborn, we drunk
we lecherous, we children
and appearing upon the flames:
the Sorcerer himself,
enshrined with dignity
his eyes ablaze, catlike,
with quiet rapacity
and dull hunger
he dances for the unfound Maid

We see not the girl
just his dancing twirl
and his ringing words like bright fireflies
scramble from his split-tongue mouth
both bird’s and man’s
swamped within the new night sky
melt into midair as they fly

See, Orison, I
I am mine I am thine
Thou too art mine and so thou art thine
in me and mine, so

bow to me
bow to me
bow to me
and mine

bow to me
bow to me
hey bow to me
and mine

The earth so turned
an eternity has here dwelt
in an instant of dance
and chant

We wait with dew-drop breath
and dare not disturb the air

A great knife appears
from nothing there
and hangs above the flame
Again tis pitch night
Again the same

Again the moon is a blue-bright queen
and all is silent
the air taut with the courtly demand
to bow to he and his

The fire bends
but does not bow

The fire burns
but does not slow

We stand
We move
We shake

A log is placed upon the flames
and the Sorcerer turns
backs away and waits
his eyes upon the blade

Read the Lyric from the Beginning