This is the night the false Saint Jason

Wakes in fear from his cannibal sleep,

And drenches the edges of his eyes

With his tears’ iron overflow;

For the flying scream of his dead woman

Opened the stitches of his skin,

And Jason bounced in the burly wind

Like a man of sack and string.

“What do you want, in the windows of your wound

Where Judas’ money shines

By daggers’ waterlight?”

“—I want the martyrs’ eyes, as tight as shells,

In death’s pretended sleep.”

“What does it mean sunlight weeps in your door

Like an abandoned child?”

“—It means the heavyhanded storm,

Whirling and ploughing the wet woods,

Has filled with terrible speech

The stone doors of my feast:

The feast of the false Saint Jason’s first communion.”