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.

10/11/2013

Etna/Catania