My early years are winding down spirals
canal O lead me river to that sweet
shy lock of your Italian walls, &
set me in your gong-sent gondola-casket.
I have not seen those verdant smoky domes--
dove-hearted Bogotá-- those roseate peaks
& sheer-strung crevices inset with palms, &
spires uprisen high in playful pinks--
& yet collegial petals can play Roma too--
& loop the loop into... --that gulf of roses,
buried in my chest might grant you
amorous fortitude! & winestained poses!--as
dancers (rising to their constellated task) quick
check their mates & soar--right through the mask.
Henry Gould | Island Road 98
Contents | Mudlark No. 6