Before the bastard burns,
there is light branching into bows
of undressed rays behind his head
as he enters the zenith of his body.
The way we watch from the shore
his name dragged behind the chariot
driven by flaming horses, through
a sky lit orange, and clouds lit red.
Turned stained glass. Turned colored
light. Turned colored. His body cradled
by heat. His blood blackened into
something boiling. Boy as bastard,
the fruit sweetened into its bitter pith.
Scene as paradigm made repugnant,
the body the poorest aviator. Horses
strain against their metal bits,
and drag exhausted bodies through
the sky. Beneath them, the boy’s,
exhausted too. The blighted son
of a sun singed and thrown headlong
into the waters. His name forgotten.
His final baptism the sea.