The Globe Tis Choked
Rid me of this damn corn,
the progeny of past laquered
loves, its to, its fro, they lap
like cats at milk, destroying all
Returning then to orange groves
and furnace fire/sing to me the
song of could have been, sweet
orchard’s milk and valleys
The wiry sheen below the
capstan’s turn, to anchor goes
the choking deep; all’s not well,
fifty fathoms down
Now granted pure by nature’s leap,
the sequinned, peppered snow,
from mountain’s irridesent yawning
glow, descends to us in a throw,
of sower’s hand!
Lilliput and Gulliver, side by side,
lead the band, and bring the sheaf
to altar bare: but quick!
Before the earth be dead, and all
its winsome jewels to share
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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