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How shall I sing, western&dry&thin,
You who for celebration should cause flow
The sensual fanfare of D'Annunzio,
Mozart's mischievous joy, the amaranthine
Mild quirks of Marvell, Villon sharp as tin
Solid as sword-death when the man blinks slow
And accordions into the form he'll know
Forever—voices can nearly make me sin
With envy, so they sound. You they saw not,
Natheless, alas, unto this epigone
Descends the dread labour, the Olympic hour—
When for the garden and the tape of what
We trust, one runs until lung into bone
Hardens, runs harder then... lucky, a flower.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 7:29 AM | Viewed: 1566 times

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