DMITRI
Dmitri, in the cold room, crouched
By a candle; long fingers, some stained with tar,
Leaf over Eliphas Levi. His body
Now drained of desire as his soul.
In meditation, passing the delicate blade
Over and over through the flame.
Wonder, as the pulse thuds in his arm,
At the fragile shell of skin
Holding back his blood.
His eyes shift round the room:
The bottle long since drained;
The candle, hollowed, draining;
The books sucked dry in weary nights.
Dmitri wipes the blade,
The charcoal black on the cloth,
Opens the cloth to white wedged in black,
Silent over the sudden force
Of the sharp white cut in the black
ROBIN HAMILTON
(published in _Stand_, 1966.
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