Under a discus of stone,
this castanet dance
in black platelet,
oval onyx on whetstone,
a swim of aniseed.
How you must sweat,
the iron clout of your back
like a question mark
screwed under rock,
idiom of death.
Easy to confuse fear for sex:
the snap of sweet violence
like diesel in flame, toxin
goosestepping into synapse,
the hourglass tipping
sand on your head.
How easy, how bereft
I am under fire, clubbed
to within an inch of my life,
when you rear to strike,
when you find the mark
by which you know your hate.
