He split upon the seamless box of silver
impotent hands; thrust in his father's face
the silence of the glittering revolver;
dragged wounded limbs along a narrow place
between two horrors: till he saw the dream
pursuer, on the naked side of him.
The hair and the dark blood, the sidelong looks,
the tingling of pursuit, the dead weapon,
lay behind. Before, meaningless rocks
rose sharply, empty; and he felt them ripen
like things growing. His long desire was there,
the buried flute that whistled him to her.
He felt a father's teeth upon his throat;
the chisel broke on the dividing wall;
the fountain's blade was crumpled. Then remote
as a bird's cry, daylight; the wonderful
escape, the tunnel pierced. But in his side
death's pain, and a pulsing spring of blood.