My web's afloat now, nude sans string theory
& though I can't see where I'm going in this cloud
it's pebbled in the quantum foam--down to 10-40.
It might even be visible someday (out loud).
These partial masks we wear--abhor--applaud
donned quickly for each grandest late finale
are portioned from a general evening shroud.
Odds are we're gypsies all--beyond the pale.
One--a regal Russian poet-son (of Riga leather man).
Two--a frank Swede belle from Algiers (alias Luba).
(Floats pas-de-deux with Ballets Russes.) (--Can, can!).
Three--that flautist Henry (plays the tuba)--he
whose ALMA now canoed across (aquamarine)
a warm canal lame ticker-time has never been.
Henry Gould | Island Road 92
Contents | Mudlark No. 6