Hand me a red road bouquet for the journey,
my little sheepdog     I will be true to the dead end.
smoky twin     little rose iceberg escapade
only cold steel can match your flinty circumpolarity.

Through the brain fog     I see a maze of canals
mirrored in the Northern Lights     and over there
beyond the iron bandshell, an eggshell dome bears
icons of a green-eyed Magdalen     lifting scales.

And I can pledge my shoulder to the bricks
with honor     but you are only a collage yourself, a
puddingstone mosaic hefting interior triple domes     and if
I want inside your fur     you just want to play tricks...

And this is how we babble along together alone
down Land O'Lakes road (alone, together, it's all one).

Henry Gould | Island Road 10
Contents | Mudlark No. 6