London awaits the latest buried man,
unlettered still, to have them all in stitches
lionize the iris of spotlight sunshine thrown down
ticker tape handkerchiefs & broken watches.
& so green stars are shining over every metropole
& you entranced with tidal roses & applause
play mother's part, & chase your favorite nightingale--
a golden globe, the apple of your eye [Ecclesiastes].
Remember then our intercepted breeze
went whispering through the broken silver mine;
casket of apple blooms, lilies fettered snowpeas
bathed us--O terrestrial, & Caroline--
for Charlie Gould was not yet 29
when he was finished --by his own icon!
Henry Gould | Island Road 80
Contents | Mudlark No. 6