After they rolled dice and whispered as if he had no presence,
       And grain by grain, particle- by- particle

The night things stirredó the new sun like a boat of gold, the splinters
       Of light rising like sap, haunch by haunch

Filling the boredom of now-it-is over, the matter of stars coming out
       Like a thousand adulteries, the shouts of the earth

Diminishing and the hoarse scents overlappingó

He lay there in the dirt, completely unguarded, the long narrow bars
       Of the body called root, the slivered curve

Of the spine: seed-pod bearing witness to the scene, blemished
       Drag-marked beauty, the reconciled dissolving,

Rotting, the funneled lily flung backwardsó

Here lying separate, abandoned; raw and rudimentary, a condemned man
       Unparticular as bottom rushes and leaves,

Bare as white-water, hammer of thunder, razor of lightening.
       Heart drowning following one step behind

In its riffle of blood, proof of the-nothing-exceptional or manifested.
       No rumor of resurrection, or fragrant ritual

Only this shape, narrow shoulders hunched over like a vestigial clawó

Lenore Wilson lives in the wilds of Napa and is a college teacher. Her work has been in such magazines as Quarterly West, Madison Review, Trivia: Feminist Voices, Rattle, 13th Moon, and Poets Against the War.

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761