 |
A HINT TO LUCRETIUS
The afterlife is an austere beast,
Fabulous but austere.
The most desired is charioteer
To the broken alto of the least,
Hobbled by aftermath but still
Beautiful, still with one bauble
Of scar upon her lip. Trouble
My mouth with your mouth. Fill
The rampant measures as Campion did.
Tabard is hue, and thyme is terrace.
My mother’s name was Doris,
A Greek unknown to her. Hidden
Among the wild herbs in their patterns
Are first things, and first things never die.
To them, the afterlife is a memory.
When I was born, there were lanterns
Strung upon eyebeams to the horizon.
Nothing afterwards stretched so far.
Upon the early mind, there are
Two loves, each a white campion.
No comments:
Post a Comment