So long, Mr. P.

“Agathodaimon”

To sing is to arraign against wind’s sough
A bluff with as fantastical a fury.

I harrow fathoms in my turbid story,
with stony light and stars of civic Lilith.

Who can slog through lucid swamps for long
And not turn mystic? Sling a mystic’s wrath.

In rain as light as silk i walk and sing,
Against no solid balk, only bald shadow.

Ruin of what our nation had, and slag
Of all tomorrow’s tors, this worst of drugs.

Big Christ, who always knows a trick to win
As pinball wizards rip down Fand’s mimosa.

I sing and lurk in lands without a flag:
By walking it is road’s own bricks i honor.


'A frozen mountain stream, crystal fringes hanging from the rocks, chains of cold lace--this made me aware of what poetry really is: living emotion, rendered in a form allied to ice; flowing, elusive, imprisoned in something hard but transparent, colorless but reflecting all the colors in the rainbow.' --Thr*shold of Fir*