Two Songs for Samson

for Carl Solomon

Where goes your nose, Old Sam?
How mighty a germ that nestled there
Could cause so mighty a blow?
Does a note so dissonant exist
To chip your granite ear?
Are there sights such horrors hold
To pluck your baby-blues, their sockets cold?
 From butcher shop I bring calves’ liver
To cook in your hot white hand.
To tempt your mouth, I may stand closer;
Not too close.
These things I do, old man, for the tender satyrs
Who danced before you and bathed naked in your pool,
Whose sweet high voices brought gods in stealth
Luring angels to heavenly choirs.
For you I will sing two songs;
Songs for your beauty, your boring charm;
The gentle hand that carved the baby lamb
Of its golden fleece.
Your sleeping-stone and green copper cup,
Do they still exist?
Can anyone use them?
As well as you’ve used me?
And your flag, oh, your flag; your face
Caboshed in heraldry, animated and cachinnating
Till that arrogant spear struck you down.
All I hear is silence;
The note of copper against stone;
Spearhead against stone;
Silk against armor.
A bilious burst shackles your perfume
To all who remember;
All who want;
All who would forgive.