Blighter

Desert

Air on skin,
  the chill of empty space, the
Nomad's grin,
  the sand, the wave and the
Cold
  will drive them back
In,
  will keep them close to him. And they will

Hide inside
  behind blind
Mirrors:
  trembling in tents,
Hearts weak with fear.
  He knows, he likes to
Keep them near.
  And at

Night, with a pride
  too big to
Swallow,
  and with leprous
Hands
  has them hum and dance
To him.
  For they have

Boiled his faith
  into ab-
-straction,
  and coiled up in their
Sickrooms,
  their bodies stir-stir-stir-stirring
In blankets.
  Like a mother's withered

Breast, they still
  set him to
Dreaming
  of quar-
-tering steel
  and of climbing
Fire.
  With a dripping honey

Hole he'll be
  winning them
Over,
  and with calculated
Neglect;
  he likes to know them
There.
  And they will

Know that they
  may only know
The laws of things;
  never their
Meaning:
  only
Laws.
  And they will bury their

Holy blade
  deep in de-
-voted chests.
  And after
Such knowledge,
  what
Forgiveness?
  Desert

Air on skin,
  the chill of empty space,
The smell of empty bodies,
  the sand, the wave,
And nothing,
And nothing.