Had I not grown suddenly short of breath, br I'd have sung hosannas. But the poor beast br that I found lay martyred beyond its death. br br The holy sun was rising in the East, br and I was watering bright illusions br as sweet and as old as Plato and Christ. br br Birds in arbours were making allusions br to Eden, and I was bound for a tryst br with a seamstress, with Angel Jones of Mold. br br But the writhing and the buzzing woke me br and the foul stink in the mystical gold, br for, breathless, I stopped and wept to behold, br as some dead poet's angry stick poked me, br br a fawn in a laughing hyena's hold.