Oracle at Delphi

Down the shade slope cupping waves unsunned,

no grape pulp breaking but the wineblack

plum's blood swells, dimpled copper of cloud splay.

The road shrine glares in the grove

of loose-hipped dogwood, moon-blotting.

Rose furls feather upper air.

Corinth Sea couples columns

as blood, sporting with porpoises,

breasted blind Tiresias trembling with wand-touch,

angelic verge, Jesse stump striking bloom

fruit flower in one, juice-cut licking cedar, olive, cypress.

“Have you come again among the dead?”

“Have you come?”

“Have you come again?”

Three times the sword-dimmed limbs attempt

the bull neck, mugitus, staggering the vine-row.

Then flesh, agony, froth, ferment.

Up sun-edged hill hang hecatombs, fat intact,

blood-bleating, curl-horned, with desiccated cud.

Sun’s deep silvers altar veins till

sacrifice repairs to pasture, sleeps--

give sorrow up to time.

Daniel Fitzpatrick is the author of a few books. He likes to roam about New Orleans, where he edits a journal called Joie de Vivre.