root pity in thy heart

I found a ruddy apple     at the foot of the well
of galaxies     like a slow heartbeat     in the tomb--
a scarlet ornament in     guttered hell or
pampered paradise,     that droned     I am.

& in disgrace--     disguise of every rude
awakening--     I saw that orb go     shadowed
rolling     ripening    like some     rotund
oration (car or ark?)     around a node

or hedge     of angles--     prism ship, or     plane
icon of human inclination--     very
scored     with wrinkles,     moods & frowns,
--& yet     miraculously ordinary!

--The finder of the gold I've stolen here
shall have my book & staff     (I'll let you steer).

Henry Gould | Island Road 79
Contents | Mudlark No. 6