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