Sonnet to Christ
From nether worlds the archer now ascends
The mound of evening through a tracery
Of waking forms. In measured walk he bends
His great bejeweled bow unerringly
With aim at Draco's heart, the scheming core
Of darkness. Viciously, across the sky
The serpent strikes, and so defends a store
Of treasure hoarded long in gloom. Stung by
The venomed fangs, the hunter falls in grief,
Yet hurls upon the louring fastness in the height
A shaft all shimmering, and slays the thief,
The ancient one who generates the night.
In somber wreathes, in shadows of dismay,
The stars portend inevitable day.
c. 1984 (revised)