David H W Grubb
A Poem of Sad Rivers
For John Knoepfle
But the veins
shredding the black sunflower
the priest aging
against ancient afternoons
the telephone
the indian music
and the lips stopping
spoke
words
that
made them love
themselves.
Murmur where I crunch
within
my cage of glass
in spring
steeped in May roses
the evening too old
for sudden deaths
and
resurrection.
Tonight the river is
the stare of the blind man. Today is
a whole nation
in the night
of their coming.
The dreaming ends
where
the skull burns:
hands of the old women
flowers
in the afternoon:
miracles like blue mules
and
Holy Lands with busted bells.
Sad boned in the long darkness
old men
eating the night.
Page(s) 44-46
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