This slaughterhouse, this Versailles—how easy
to make claims, as another man, in another time,
dismembers his mother, in homage, in brilliance,
in stupefaction as rich as the cheesy mutual anguish
of his birth hour: the dumb avidity, the breath
like cold liquid fire poured down his throat, the first
breath containing all of life, each breath after only
a repetition, a reprise: he stuffs her hands in his pockets,
steps back, sways—it is night, stardust: "Take your hands off me,"
he says, laughs, catches a glimpse of his face in the window
and stares: Whose blood, whose pure excellence exhibited here,
what face is this that will know everything, see clearly?