Sunday, October 20, 2013

Arthur, Dead

Arthur, Dead

Upon this slope of Mt. Etna
a rocky haze of black dust, lust
for life at closing time; sublime,
the baroque gesture beckoned

but trees just grow, regardless.
Every moment, after a certain age,
can either be a consummation or
a capitulation, again, to time.

I’ll never love enough to cover up
this hole Aeolus blew into my loosen-
ed Tooth—I never did make my peace
, either, with the goddess at Erice. I lost

all my emotional equilibrium
and cried and cried and cried and cried
“Don’t beat me anymore, my mommy.”
I’ve learned too many lessons now

to give it up.


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