|
by Bernard Henrie
The ruffled fish in gauze water,
several hundred poems scattered
on the tropical lawn. I am without you
a second year, when even one
I could not bare.
The bat and rat tear the pear.
Colored birds look down. Flamingo
birds, at least one or two, ducks stained
as tobacco fingers glide somnambulant.
Speech turns to lisp an
d is half-forgotten.
Lights turned down low, I’m alone
in the cracked bath, a solace I
suppose.
Locked silver razor on a shaving dish.
Faint breeze in the mosquito nets,
bird feathers and perspiring louse.
The dinging of a marine bell
across the strewn tombolo of my house.
Unfilled pitcher, dry water glass. The slow
discharge of time in a neighborhood of stars,
the drift into space like falling asleep. |