For Wilf and his House

When young the Christians told me
How we pinned Jesus
Like a lovely butterfly against the wood
And I wept beside paintings of Calvary
At velvet wounds and delicate twisted feet

But he could not hang softly long
Your fighters so proud with bugles
Bending flowers with their silver stain
And when I faced the Ark for counting
Trembling under the burning oil
The meadow of running flesh turned sour
And I kissed away my gentle teachers
Warned my younger brothers

Among the young and turning-great
Of the large nations, innocent
Of the spiked wish and the bright crusade
There I could sing my heathen tears
Between the summersaults and
Chestnut battles, love the distant saint
Who fed his arm to flies
Mourn the crushed ant
And despise the reason of the heel
Raging and weeping are left on the early road
Now each in his holy hill
The glittering and hurting days
Are almost done
Then let us compare mythologies
I have learned my elaborate lie
Of soaring crosses and poisoned thorns
And how my fathers nailed him
Like a bat against a barn
To greet the autumn and late hungry ravens
As a hollow yellow sign