Death of Sir Nihil, book of nth,
Upon the charred and clotted sward,
Lacking the lily of our Lord,
Alases of the hyacinth.
Could flicker from behind his ear
A whistling silver throwing knife
And with a holler punch the life
Out of a swallow in the air.
Behind the lariat’s butterfly
Shuttled his white and gritted grin,
And cuts of sky would roll within
The noose-hole, when he spun it high.
The violent, neat and practiced skill
Was all he loved and all he learned;
When he was hit, his body turned
To clumsy dirt before it fell.
And what to say of him, God knows.
Such violence. And such repose.