Dream Song 89: Op. posth. no. 12

 In a blue series towards his sleepy eyes
they slid like wonder, women tall & small,
of every shape & size,
in many languages to lisp 'We do'
to Henry almost waking.
 What is the night at all,
his closed eyes beckon you.


In the Marriage of the Dead, a new routine,
he gasped his crowded vows past lids shut tight
and a-many rings fumbled on.

His coffin like Grand Central to the brim
filled up & emptied with the lapse of light.

Which one will waken him?

O she must startle like a fallen gown,
content with speech like an old sacrament
in deaf ears lying down,
blazing through darkness till he feels the cold
& blindness of his hopeless tenement
while his black arms unfold.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...