BEING GREEK, OR PSEUDO-SO

BEING GREEK, OR PSEUDO-SO,

all I taste is lemon.

Silent, secret-trees whose pale

protracts the bitter color-smell’s

desire.  Yellow, yellow, yellow,

an ancient violin’s shrill gut

pressed against the glass quick-edge

of night’s neon gall-lit glitter.

The golden monster mounts—grasps

with teeth at napes, neighing perhaps,

pressing our foreheads deeper still

in this altar’s cold gold stone.

Light your wretched candle and leave!

Alone-blind, the rinds are mine.