His birthday comes around just once a year,
dying and born anew, though, every day--&
if he weren't over yonder, he'd be here.
Meek baritone of the mighty Milky Way,
a tenor of the flock, he's where his words are--
Mark how blood shudders in the fixèd star!
Tin harmonica below--(a joe named Luther)--
King of sheepdogs--(doggèd sheep)--you are!
Papyrus--pink-palmed scrolls--about to flower,
my speckled maple stretches toward the feeble sun...
some early spirit of your ancestor
tenders black lamb's-wool & a ruddy crown:
rose orientation lent serene uplifted fire.
Henry Gould | To the Green Constellation
Contents | Mudlark No. 6