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