Thursday, November 10, 2016

Robert Verdon, #354, jagged portents



I can say it only in melody

there is a boot upon my tongue

but I am shrunk to a cyclone buzzing in a jar,

the storm debeaked and pent up in nameless

afternoon, one child forgotten on a farm lane

starving for the other, one night in 1929,

nothing but a rusting harrow by the rotten cabbages

and the suggestion of magnificence over the hills,

the false painted dawn of the New Jerusalem or a broken streetlight,

a star or Jupiter above the radio mast,

the nagging echo of a stone or a society at the bottom of a well

 

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