47

To a Would-Be Cardboard Man

It hurts too much—that you have no shelter

against the darkening sky, the coming storm.

My hands too are empty of hewn trees

from the dark woods of wolves and leopards,

and the rusty nails I hoard

should not repeat their wounds in hands and feet.

So how can I say: Go down,

the only road that’s left?

No.

Crazed by knowledge,

I put on old Minos’ horns,

snatch up the sacred labrys,

and leap to slay anew the forbidden bulls of the Sun.

I will build another labyrinth on earthquaked Crete

to hide my white shame.