VISHNU

I am my father that died in the year of my birth:
The warrior tears,
The world destroyer, Vishnu,
The robber’s open home.

I am aloneness short of air
The desperate dark of blood rushed eyes
Before the forgotten way.

I am become winter, become frozen.
I am silvered weeds crisp on battlefields;
The gilded grasses beneath your boots.

And the dirty broke nails that will build again
As soon as Hay Lane sun.