Tuesday, October 05, 2004


At the crossroads, the governor imposed from a far capital
As a Pilate or Quisling or Seyss-Inquart,
And for him too many had on their lips collaborator,
The creak of torsion,
The twisting links caught and played by zephyrs,
Phineus turns as random as the dice,

At the crossroads the cadaver has done five hundred years,
     orbits aimed at the advance,
In death, this fingerpost will inform the traveller,
Who thinks they have a choice,

Three times Bellerophon strikes the oracle,
Three times the oracle comes to rest,
Telling of the road just done, return.