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A wasp skims nearby up the bright warm air,
Immobile me, my poem of you lost
Into your image burning, a burning ghost
Between the bricks and fixed eyes, blue despair
To spell you lively in this summerfare
Back from your death of distance, my lute tossed
Down, while my ears reel to your marriage, crossed
Brass endless, burning on my helpless glare.

After eighteen years to the Rue Fortunée
Balzac brought Hanska, the Count dead and the lover
Not well to live, home, where the black lock stuck
Stuck! stuck! lights blazed, the crazy velvet smashed away,
Idlers assembled, a smith ran to discover—
Ten weeks, and then turned in (like mine) his luck.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 30 Aug 2008 5:02 PM | Viewed: 1663 times

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