Property was thus appall'd,
                           That the self was not the same

The trees are withered to the bare bones now
& in the shallows of regret & out of work
I walk the streets     & make myself a mark
evading by a hair a roving     garbage scow

The skies are lowering     & shall these bones
live again?     I'll go evangelize the Stones
in London     & your green-eyed compass rose
must crown me not myself     like some Napoleon

& our Thanksgivings, now     shall be provisional
with the purity of a circus     & the order
of a dark street's gypsy camp     & in a tattered
Creole pilgrim flame     we shall be gathered up,
snowed-in again,     where streams run copper-colored:
my small estate, which is     the smallest coin of all

Henry Gould | Island Road 34
Contents | Mudlark No. 6