To Ian,
frail, pale, with vapid
eyes,
baritone, brother, born
child of God but backboned by the Devil:
I lie down when I listen
to you, keeping the tears
swirling in saunas of
effervescent emotion: Marco Polo,
drip-drop, hopscotch,
child's play – recreations from yesterday.
My joy is not the next
man's: from Maryland to Macclesfield, mundanity.
I'm forever obsessed with
the sunrise because the new dawn fades
into a perpetual autumn
sunset with free-falling foliage,
fumbling towards the
ecstasy of ash and dust,
sun holding sway until the
final moment.
So, this is permanence....
July 15 – May 18
No comments:
Post a Comment