Oct 13, 2003 15:47
I March Hares
My Irish blood curses me
But also gives me dreams
I fight the drinking, slowly sinking ship
I fight the tides
Inside my blood, a twilight Swift
And moonlight Yeats
By day I sleep or cry
Or eat on hidden words inside my vanish tent
Behind the gates of imagination’s world,
When inks in creeping a nightmare,
Like a bus stop’s bagged dirt scarecrow,
Whose guardianship I’ve tried
And she becomes a welcome sight before my searching whirl,
The gleaming vowels sounding out my burning curls of words
To be flattened on the page is she too
My glistening erogenatrix, my one and only muse?