Lascaux

ten men curled like scythes round the fire.

Left behind the bracing moon. Passed a pack

of ibex, passed the mammoth. Left the carious

canines before the rath, left the scapula—

freed space for petal dyes, for fixatives.

Passed (in a dream) Chauvet. Alsace. Lorraine.

Past the scree, past the wolf standing sentinel, her

mouth. Struck two stones to hearten the blaze,

sped up; pulled from the sack the manganese, the gilt

mixture of ochre and ore, the animal fat,

the deer bristle. The hare I speared fresh

for better reds. Mash of berries in a rolled frond.

Looked back—still breathing, still lone, set

bone to the bare wall: summoned up the aurochs

in a dervish turn, flank hot with lashes, all hot with dying and kneeling

down. Then nothing. Then the quiet

credit of our kind.