Silence Raving

　　 by Clayton Eshleman

　　 Patters， paters， Apollo globes， sound

　　 breaking up with silence， coals

　　 I can still hear， entanglement of sense pools，

　　 the way a cave might leak perfume--

　　 in the Cro-Magnons went， along its wet hide walls，

　　 as if a flower in， way in， drew their leggy

　　 panspermatic bodies， spidering over

　　 bottomless hunches， groping toward Persephone's fate：

　　 to be quicksanded by the fungus pulp of Hades' purple hair

　　 exploding in their brains.

　　 They poured their foreheads into the coals and corrals

　　 zigzagged about in the night air--

　　 the animals led in crossed

　　 a massive vulva incised before the gate，

　　 the power that came up from it was paradise， the power

　　 the Cro-Magnons bequeathed to us：

　　 to make an altar of our throats.

　　 The first words were mixed with animal fat，

　　 wounded men tried to say who did it.

　　 The group was the rim of a to-be-invented wheel，

　　 their speech was spokes， looping over，

　　 around， the hub of the fire， its silk of us，

　　 its burn of them， bop we dip， you dip，

　　 we dip to you， you will dip to us， Dionysus

　　 the plopping， pooling words， stirred

　　 by the lyre gaps between the peaks of flame，

　　 water to fire， us to them.

　　 Foal-eyes， rubbery， they looped

　　 back into those caves whose walls could be strung

　　 between their teeth， the sticky soul material pulled to

　　 The sides by their hands， ooh

　　 what bone looms they sewed themselves into， ah

　　 what tiny male spiders they were

　　 on the enormous capable of devouring them

　　 female rock elastic word！