The Children Of Sisyphus Poem by Matthew Buchwald

The rump of the waterfall is violet with cuckolds;
The earth below them is a jar of needles; the summer's
Last glaciers prance inside their hands.
Sisyphus thrusts his head into the frozen wall
And knits his lips as your voice tattoos his spleen.
The maidens washing bridal veils look down at the reflection
Of his face in the wall with your jaws gnawing on his mind,
And are happy. They tear their veils and run into the falls like mist.

The tangled thicket with its earhorn watches the falls
Like an archangel sweating asphalt.
And the maidens, masked in the depths of the cloister,
Cry for the earhorn to stop:
'Rudder of sage, anchor of remorse,
Erase from our deed the bounds of any glacier.'

A pod of pennants kiss their way out of the steamrolled desert
And swim away like eels into the glare of ground spice.
Eyes drop into the melting glaciers from the steamroller's exhaust
And forge drab bars of silver with tendrils of icy air.
Occult ciphers leap into the dementia of oceans,
Caterpillars dry into husks and crystallize like ore,
The ore battles with a bone corset like an ape.

Earhorns carve the figure of Sisyphus into your jaw,
While the maidens are exiled from the void of the cloisters
And cuckolds climb over the falls like stones.