Altar

...better to see it wilt in autumn tints...
like a crown and with it their heavy thorns,
stemming from a blind stream of pure ascent:

burning in flames crackles all of it torn,
pitch black towers of smoke on a mount steep,
seen in a sky tender light has been born;

and like a hot wave, shape of a coil deep,
as locks found on a man turned a goat,
or at times ringlets that dangle sheep

near ponds where the needed grapevines pruned float,
with all modes of spices drifting they seep:
grown leaf of grapes girded round like a moat.