From a Man Dying on a Cross, by Evelyn Scott

From a Man Dying on a Cross

The pains in my palms are threads of sightless fire
Drawn like fiery veins through blackened marble walls,
Crashing with a dull roar
To the ends of the earth.   Winey peace..
My sick blook purrs.   Milky bosoms float through red hair,
Gaunt faces and sick eyes
Beside her face.
I debauch them with my forgiveness.
Only her, I cannot forgive.   Moonlight trembles as the silk of her garment,
Perfumed silk.
The cross makes a long harsh shadow
Rigid in the sand.
Her white feet stir across the shadow.

poems.one - Evelyn Scott

Evelyn Scott