The Fury Of Cocks

 There they are 
drooping over the breakfast plates, 
angel-like, 
folding in their sad wing, 
animal sad, 
and only the night before 
there they were 
playing the banjo.
 
Once more the day's light comes 
with its immense sun, 
its mother trucks, 
its engines of amputation.
 
Whereas last night 
the cock knew its way home, 
as stiff as a hammer, 
battering in with all 
its awful power.
 
That theater.
 
Today it is tender, 
a small bird, 
as soft as a baby's hand.
 
She is the house.
 
He is the steeple.
 
When they fuck they are God.
 
When they break away they are God.
 
When they snore they are God.
 
In the morning thet butter the toast.
 
They don't say much.
 
They are still God.
 
All the cocks of the world are God, 
blooming, blooming, blooming 
into the sweet blood of woman.

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