He is taken down from the cross

The eyes turned upwards, weeping whiteness,
the tissues torn by drifting smoke; he
lies unable to tell whether or not the tactic
turned his understanding (his understanding
lies out of sight in some crevice of the
rock beneath his head, supporting
caverns deep below the grass on which he sprawls,
still).  He sees something through the eyes of
others, sees a sort of subtlety made
blatant in sly contortions, spreadeagled by
convention and the long slow suckings of
necessity.  His fever's abated now, made
imagination, made to flow out of
his veins, drowned in cold water,
drowned by physic...

If they show mercy, assume it's from
necessity; it's always from necessity.
Look.
     His shivering taken as assent, he's
grown again, freshly woven, made
brilliant, diamond, pearl, ruby,
                         made
unmeeting to infinity in overpowering
paradox.  The only help that he accepted
left him fire's protection; fire's useless
when he's burnt by deep shaking, his
landscape scarred by fissures belching
magma - his body's still, but only in the way 
it lies.  They need this field for other bodies,
carry off his carcase for the crows, and for
the compost-heap.  They didn't intend
safety for him.  They intended
nothing for him.
You could say he was lucky.

( to the contents page.)