Out here, beside the turquoise pool,
unshielded from the traffic sounds,
i yet may dream of frozen moons–
or lying on a sun-dry towel.
No inspiration trammels where
the clockwork of a verse-wright grinds.
So Gautier who took such pains
could lose the tuning of his lyre.
Two shades of weathered wood enclose,
& both still darkened by the damp.
Some birds i hear, who sound like hope,
& less like all the other jazz.
Perhaps i may be on the mend
after so many days spent tiptoe
high on a wire, no ground in sight:
& uncompanioned save by wind.
Tribunal from the distant future. Brings up a 21c human for questioning. Who is unable to provide anything but lying or nonsensical answers, to every question.
No comments:
Post a Comment