THEIR HEADS ARE BLINDFOLDED SKULLS ...

THEIR HEADS ARE BLINDFOLDED SKULLS

Their heads are blindfolded skulls in an ox yoke.
Hung with honey-soaked rags or faces, trotting
Together to the long house, awaited by dung smoke.
A fine time for a wedding;

No Longer dropped are the jaws of their hearts.
Loves' unknown, inevitable laws in fits and starts
No longer conduct their loves' own permutations.
They are patients;

Each comes by a dusking horse to the other's aid.
With dark, broodcomb memory in a cedar hive,
They have revived all symptoms, recalled still others.
Inlaid the wax palliative,

At once remebering and forgetting their flaws,
They wrap and unwrap the other with gauze.