Sonnets from a Lock Box - Part of 26
Around this rod my writhing self might twist—
And fold the splendor of its poisoned mesh,
Its spangled scales of gold and amethyst,
The brilliant convolutions of the flesh.
Not yet my sinuous coil from the ground
Can lift its lust—save by this one escape.
This fearful straightness I may wreathe around
As close as binds the skin upon the grape.
Now upward springs the fierce determined power,
And its sharp brightness shoots my sensuous nerves.
With godlike speed in this unearthly hour
I break in splendor all my glittering curves.
Now by this straightness, I lay hold on God
Who in His Town set up His Holy Rod.
And fold the splendor of its poisoned mesh,
Its spangled scales of gold and amethyst,
The brilliant convolutions of the flesh.
Not yet my sinuous coil from the ground
Can lift its lust—save by this one escape.
This fearful straightness I may wreathe around
As close as binds the skin upon the grape.
Now upward springs the fierce determined power,
And its sharp brightness shoots my sensuous nerves.
With godlike speed in this unearthly hour
I break in splendor all my glittering curves.
Now by this straightness, I lay hold on God
Who in His Town set up His Holy Rod.
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