Between the swamp gas of     your ghostly Mardi Gras
& surly clowns attached     to every crossroad bar
between a ghoul-dug knight &     very bored Aurora
under cherubim above     the electric chair

Above the undertow     over the lead-gray sea
beneath the slippery clay     below the frozen ground
between the royal mattress     & his flattery
his beggared silver sword & her     deflected wound

Between the old has-been     & his all-wet twin bed
between the Queen of Beats     [a nothing there Will comes]--
& to the blinkered soul     a something sweet & red
a sky-burnt fire truck     or     handkerchief of plums

& in the savage dark     one scandalized blue lamb
one jacknife dove unfolds     & whispers float--     I am...

Henry Gould | Island Road 73
Contents | Mudlark No. 6