It seems like London here today     the air
is murk     edges are gray     as the Professor
smuggles a bomb beneath a threadbare macintosh,
    sky tumbling around like dirty wash.

Wherever you are, you aren't here today.
Absent as a pendulum     this way, that way
swings in an empty cage     while
some folk keep faring forth     on arduous pilgrimage--

before the heavy snows bury their sorrow
& burden of nightfall settles     on the year
& the tattered     tattooed body     here below

recedes in white lime     a phosphorous glare
& the star in the milk turns black     yes     right here


Henry Gould | Island Road 28
Contents | Mudlark No. 6