In the funnels baroque,
Where dark and light, like axeblades facing,
Mimicked the murderer’s stroke,
The bull’s double peak, and the decimal spacing
Of twinned banderillas – two and two and two-
The yoke of magenta and maize on the holocaust’s field;
And below, the breathing of Samson in a cable of lather and
spittle.
His death gave to the blackening ring
More than the hilt at rest in a column of gristle,
Or the agonist’s warlock shared in a multitude’s shadow:
Gave fear, in the hump where the rapier rode, without
anger;
Odor of milk and lament; the wafer and manger;
The cape’s corolla and the ruining Spring
And Dionysus drowsing in a meadow.
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