Home to yawns and
pillow-yarn;
sleep dustballs
and quiet
are my poems;
they’re end-of-the-day quirks,
beaten up by
living them through
in my lifetime:
each poem a seperate jewel,
a seperate study
in something.
Archive for December 19, 1994
0
I perch upon a basalt wall,
12 feet high; it surrounds the port
Separating the rough-hewn blocks
Of the well-travelled docks
From the slopes of the mountains lost
To the predations of much-prized rationality.
Many a sailor I watch disembark
From cutter or barge or sailing-ship;
They wind their way from wharf to within
The city whose walls I’ve scaled.
Young and old who, unfamiliar
With the burnished minarets and golden spires,
Wander lost amidst the buccaneers
Who have been here many a dream-time,
Stride winking to their carts and kingdoms.
