Bells ring as the days move toward snow,
days governed by a different providence,
not this quivering burg of whims and nerves,
as shanty towns move through experience
sleep encircled hope here on the wharves
of Costaguana under a brooding mountain's brow.
The old sabre over the mantle who would have known
cold steel could cauterize each heart's high noon?
The word apportions beauty pride of place
& vanity while courage opens doors &
echoing compassions bless
(with mirrored cherubim) your pulsing search
(Bells droning onward into the azured arch
silvered toward a frosted yeast of snows)
Henry Gould | Island Road 11
Contents | Mudlark No. 6