on the porch with Pound
Venice,
evening breezes,
the radio faint
from the kitchen,
the parched pain
of a life's labor
misunderstood -
leaves of
greatness spraying
into the darkness,
dangling limp
in exhausted hands.
Daub the
salt-stained
stigmata, open
the weeping pores,
exude the horrors
of hate, deceit,
in a not-forgotten
alien race.
.Waves of
moon-dyed mist
break purple
on the rail,
the bubbles
crest, exploding
in canticles
of silence -
transcend
this swimmer
of a summer's
night
who is drowned
by the dawn
of registered
time --
drink this froth
of fog with me,
toast the dew
of Ezra's brow.
