on the porch with Pound

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
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 -
this swimmer
of a summer's
who is drowned
by the dawn
of registered
time --
drink this froth
of fog with me,
toast the dew
of Ezra's brow.

< Back | Slow Trains Contents | Roomful of Navels Contents | Other Chapbooks Next >