In the Sanctuary words are wet
With the dew of demise—damp desire—
And, our tongues are by leopards beset
On all sides and the air tastes so dire.
An Impossibyl Angæl inter-
Jects with stone prose in the throes and knows
That the leopard’s spots are each splintered
Like wounds from private battles which show.
So, to know fear and its grisly face
Is to know a beast which will vanish
Only once you can dig the wet Grace
Of an Angæl who can then banish.