Boxed in prize-fighter
Spinning punches for a sold-out crowd
Tubes and tubes
Run chain for miles, rust spots baring
Stark, empty Jews
Playing corn in a field, as
Nazi golems keep track of the moves.
A dusty field lying naked and bruised
Soaking a fever
Like a garden patch, mid-Sundayafternoon.
A mindless hum and the funereal gloom
Turns black to life - avarice Mary; my wife
Has been sick Seven years - with undying green eyes
Her clock springs sprung, like the misshapen tide.
Copyright © Paul Sylvester