Venery of the I.M.

Dark the gay quilt
of words on the wall.
Dark our many moving archers,
who lift and fall
through their own images
dark as remembrance,
or thin January deer
with the slight bones ,
easy to pick up
and throw into a mounting
as the fuckable boys
circling behind
a menagerist's mind.

There's no gameskeeper to sour our hunt.
There's no cock big enough to fill the mind's cunt.