Muddled monster, I, with
pearl-like eye
awash with shell and sand,
and brittle hand and rocky feet:
the simpleton who stamped and stared
and saw the unicorn,
and pale again the bell-like air,
the starry horn of unicorn
impaling moments out of time,
or searching slopes, transfixed.
The unicorn had come with summer,
poised upon a stony barrier,
reeling solidly through myth,
where wisdom is a fable and the gods beget,
enraged or passionate or trial by faith:
as love is death and we must mourn
the pagan hearse, the gentle unicorn.
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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