143

There was music from outside
In the back office of Ahmad's
That played across the walls
And into the crashed forms
Of the sidetable and the lamp
The body had displaced and
Made a pose of their place
In the broken section of it,
Of the demolished corner of
The composed, pristine room.
The music was 50s arabesque
Jazz; choric, acid, softhowling.
It sunk into the stopped heart
Of Vincent Arthur Carra as
A fullformed code into the
Disengaged command of an
Uncoupled old machineworks.
Cables fallen slack in heaps.
Cord and chain and fuel
Neutered and flaccid, fallen
Totally from the mouth and
From the gaping exitwound
And from the dark, spreading
Stomachhole. A system only
Visible in its dysfunction.
His grey eyes moved as in the
Collapsing light of the music.

142

And he was looking
Into the farfuelled chambers
Of the outer dark,

*

Thinking of the force
And the referent, and of
Parallax, holding it

*

All a miniature
Under thought, subject to his
Will, to rotation,

*

When he thought: a man
Who sees the stars 'over him'
Is yet a function.

141

Sal placed the receiver back in
Its cradle and he went over to
The cabinet behind the desk
And removed from it a sleek,
Steel barrel tommygun with a
Moulded mahogany stock and
He held it in the crook of his
Arm and left the room. Passing
Through the hallway he could
See that the shop was empty
But that behind the counter
Ahmad was crouched and he
Reached down and hauled him
Up and propped him on the
Counteredge and held his body
There with the barrel beneath
Ahmad's lower ribs. He did not
Speak. Ahmad was spluttering—
Wha-wha-, Sal comon comon,
D-d-d—You know what I am
Gonna do Ahmad if you don't
Shut the fuck up your fucking
Body and soul are going be
Pried apart by force. Going to
To open your ribcage and feed
You your own fucking heart,
You understand? He withdrew
The barrel and as Ahmad fell
Swung the stock up to crack at
His jaw. He gave him the heel
On the floor, a few times, and
Then leaned in and cradled his
Trembling face in one sallow
Hand. I am going to fuck you,
You little mamaluke. Fuck you.
Now tell me who your friend is.
C-c-cieco. Cieco. Sal comon—
Fuckin-A. You kick up to Reuben
From now on. If I see you again,
I'm not going to see you again—
Gabisci? He straightened, spat.
Ahmad waited until his footfall
Had ceased. He began gasping.

140

There was first a seed,
Opened ground, a blanched hollow.
High in the chambers

*

Of the air, soft rain.
A wombcase of clay. Hallowed
In earth, it germinates.

*

The soul's-shape of it
Tumbled from the earth like fire,
Violet, orange.

*

Now wind saws through it,
Dessicate organ. Chassis.
Catastrophe—speak.

139

To the farthest star.
The all-envelope expands,
Proliferate. Flux.

*

Ash-pink, indigo,
Vermillion, bloodwhite, plasma
Multifoliate,

*

Tissues of the old
Softflower, germinating of
Nothing, but itself.

*

The old light—let be.
Necessity, found this slow
Bright mechanism.

138

This is my body—
Of galaxies made as ours
Is of molecules—

*

Sprawled over the dark,
A sleeping arm, nebulae
Flowering in its span.

*

And the head-case, where
Our origins lie dormant;
Empty chrysalis.

*

Fluor. This my blood—
Our substance, colour that blooms
Behind fallen eyes.

137

That which we call God
We must reckon; we must now
Transubstantiate.

*

Omnipresent: in
Matter to the farthest, and
In antimatter.

*

Omnipotent: in
The course of all particles,
Equivalent force.

*

Potent in mass, in
Energy present. So; the
Universe is God.

136

A grey light figures
The outline of two lovers.
The morning is come.

*

They sleep yet, restive,
Their breath shallow, mouths open,
Enclosed in their arms,

*

As of one substance :
The fixity of the light
Is violent, grey.

*

Over the bed stands old
Hephæstus—smokeblack, silent—
Wielding his blowtorch.

135

I carried the cottontail out
To the back field and layed
Him down in the collapsed
Hollow under where the bank
Had all fallen away and I
Covered him with leaves.
His body was wet and not
Light, and I had to hold
The neck. I could hear the
Others calling me back but
I didn't care. And now he
Can rest and not get his
Guts all pulled out on a
String by a hawk or have
His eyes stabbed in. Poppa
Used to say beautiful things
Die. He used to say there
But for the grace of God
Go I, when we would see the
Processions, for funerals.
But he went there, grace or
No. And when I was a kid
Lou would call me Rabbit.

134

Sal waited, as minutes elapsed.
Then the door moved inward to
Admit a gigantic man dressed
In a shapeless mustard suit.
His complexion was olive and
He was bright with perspiration.
Seeing Sal, his eyes whitened
And his face engorged and it
Became sallow. He backed into
The wall making wordless, empty
Guttural sounds. Sal discharged
The pistol over his forearm and
And the shot pinned the giant
To the wall. He slid down it,
Leaving a long crescent trail
Of blood, and fell to the floor.
His expression was rapt for a
Moment, and then became static.
His jowls ceased to shake, and
His eyes grew pale, and parted.

Sal breathed, holding the gun.
He came nearer and overturned
The body. The exit wound was a
Rosette of flesh in the endless
Expanse of the man's torso. Red
Seeped from the well of broken
Fabric. Sal stood back from him
And took aim and put a second
Round where the spine and head
Were conjoined. The body jolted.
Sal stood looking at it in the
Dark of the office and reached
In his coat for a cigarette and
Lit it and went to the desk and
Picked up the telephone to dial.