Who
             Are  you
           Who is born
         In the next room
       So  loud  to  my own
     That I can hear the womb
   Opening  and  the  dark  run
 Over the ghost and the dropped son
Behind the wall thin as a wren's bone?
 In the birth  bloody room unknown
  To the  burn and  turn of time
     And the heart print of man
       Bows   no   baptism
         But dark  alone
           Blessing on
             The wild
               Child.

                 I
             Must lie
          Still as stone
         By the wren bone
       Wall hearing the moan
      Of the mother hidden
    And the shadowed head of pain
 Casting to-morrow like a thorn
And the midwiwes of miracle sing
 Until the turbulent new born
    Burns me his name and his flame
      And the winged wall is torn
       By his torrid crown
        And the dark thrown
            From his loin
              To bright
                Light.

                When
              The wren
          Bone writhes down
         And the   first dawn
        Furied by his stream
       Swarms on the kingdom come
     Of  the   dazzler  of   heaven
    And the splashed mothering maiden
  Who   bore  him  with  a  bonfire  in
His mouth and rocked him like a storm
    I   shall  run  lost  in  sudden
       Terror and shining from
         The once hooded room
          Crying   in   vain
            In the caldron
              Of   his
               Kiss

                 In
              The spin
             Of the sun
            In the spuming
          Cyclone of his wing
        For  I was  lost who am
    Crying at the man drenched throne
  In  the  first  fury  of  his  stream
And  the    lightnings   of   adoration
Back to black silence melt and mourn
   For  I  was  lost  who  have come
         To dumbfounding haven
          And the finding  one
           And the high noon
             Of his wound
              Blinds my
                 Cry.

                There
            Crouched bare
           In  the  shrine
           Of his blazing
          Breast I shall waken 
        To the judge blown bedlam
      Of the uncaged sea bottom 
The cloud climb of the exhaling tomb 
  And  the  bidden  dust  upsailing 
   With his flame in  every grain. 
     O   spiral   of   ascension 
       From the vultured urn 
          Of  the   morning 
            Of  man  when
               The  land 
                  And 

                  The 
                Born sea 
            Praised the sun 
           The  finding  one 
          And   upright  Adam 
         Sang  upon     origin! 
       O the wings of the children! 
   The woundward flight of the ancient 
Young  from  the  canyons  of  oblivion! 
  The sky stride of the always slain 
     In   battle!  the     happening 
       Of saints to their vision! 
         The world winding home! 
           And the whole pain 
             Flows   open 
                And I 
                  Die.