Measured now     dark winding of the spring
beneath the cupola. (Fink walks by
the coffeeshop.) Amazed on Morris Avenue
(the gold-domed temple     launched into the blue)
you lead me down this island road     the ring
in my hand yours, O     mere breath of air (sigh).

As the bent palm leaf leads the king
(Blind King, Venetian--Federal Hill) toward
a national crown o'thorns--green
chastening around the track--a Florentine
all-monde roadrace crusade--or
lolling MW princess--thinking

double you     dark S     in me--
M     what you will     (a-wheeling Zee).

Henry Gould | Island Road 57
Contents | Mudlark No. 6