The Rites Of Darkness

The sleds of the children Move down the right slope.

To the left, hazed in the tumbling air,

A thousand lights smudge Within the branches of the old forest,

Like colored moons in a well of milk.

The sleds of the children Make no sound on the hard-packed snow.

Their bright cries are not heard On that strange hill.

The youngest are wrapped In cloth of gold, and their scarfs Have been dipped in blood.

All the others, from the son Of Tegos, who is the Bishop Of Black Church—near Tarn,

On to the daughter of the least slut,

Are garbed in love's shining dress;

Naked little eels, they flash Across the amazed ice.

And behind each sled There trots a man with his sex Held like a whip in his snaking hand.

But no one sees the giant horse That climbs the steps which stretch forth Between the calling lights and that hill Straight up to the throne of God.

He is taller than the highest tree And his flanks steam under the cold moon.

The beat of his heart shakes the sky And his reaching muzzle snuffles At the most ancient star. * The innocent alone approach evil Without fear; in their appointed flame They acknowledge all living things.

The only evil is doubt; the only good Is not death, but life.

To be is to love.

This I thought as I stood while the snow Fell in that bitter place, and the riders Rode their motionless sleds into a nowhere Of sleep.

Ah,

God, we can walk so easily,

Bed with women, do every business That houses and roads are for, scratch Our shanks and lug candles through These caves; but,

God, we can't believe,

We can't believe in anything.

Because nothing is pure enough.

Because nothing will ever happen To make us good in our own sight.

Because nothing is evil enough. * I squat on my heels, raise my head To the moon, and howl.

I dig my nails into my sides,

And laugh when the snow turns red.

As I bend to drink,

I laugh at everything that anyone loves.

All your damn horses climbing to heaven