Lust burns, decays-- a glaring half-life
Time's false staff leads to oblivion.
Time staffs the dining hall with frothing strife
(brief-basking dogmatists define, refine)
& hurtles doomside-down my send-up heart.
Eyes & mouth breasts back & legs-- just so--
three find it delicious-- & a fourth
sinks, faithless, in a crate at Sutton Hoo...
Still in your palm (wide as the Black Sea)
these sheaves of tears ferment, compost to wine--
one shady gulf & odalisque Eternity
you enter ruby-scarved, O purple vine--
across tall buildings, seas a single band
will intercede for me--your tendriled hand.
Henry Gould | Island Road 66
Contents | Mudlark No. 6