In me you see the evening. Gold dust
a yellow level bled bubbled wavering toward
black night. Russian rug on the study floor
Mongolian-eyed knighted squared grandmastered
On a gray New England October day.
Slow gray streets spangled with coral &
curled toward Hibernian sleep. My
green Sears Constellation all that remains
& it was yours. Stars wheel overhead
no consolation only an alphabet of levers and pulleys
tackle of a speech machine. So much
revolves around the idle pinprick of a queen
so pale so small her sheepish finger strays &
stirs divided memories once left for dead.
Henry Gould | Island Road 8
Contents | Mudlark No. 6