and they’ve run the path to our red door

where there’s a ghost at the threshold;

they’ve stormed in

and it may well be a bloody miner

to break the black knight

hanging. And the scaffold may be a cage

on your brother’s chessboard

within itself like the cage I want to cling to

and they’ve graffitied the mirror

chained into the dark. No choice in your proceeding

on your dresser

style. You will not change the pilgrims

and you’ve barricaded your bedroom door

in the angle of their prayers. O elegy

and how the night-doctor is on his way

in sunken scaffolds screaming in the glass

because we’ve woken your aunt

what you cried out as you hung there guillotines

and she says you need

the last earth rock on earth,

your stomach pumped.