Fitfully, he squeezed himself to the last,
his head ringing ... then smash, over stones gone green
the whole crown cup at one stroke splattering
all that thinking lofted within the beast.
Vaults have melted and poured the contrary whole ...
Flesh went off in freezing jags of mist,
in foggy coils, slowly, though a stripped heart
arrowed by fire winnows itself from night.
Plodding executioner, vast sleeve
with its trains, shadow dragged at the embers, axes
slicing into the glowing clod. And earth
tumbles to slumber. Nevermore centaur: the wild.
Yet under scorching trots at the stud farms, ringing
deep within piled strata, veins of gold.