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