Poem for November
Out of a migraine nightmare he wheeled
clunking mathematical equipment for an
equipage of clunking mathematical dunces
howling to mitigate denial “I find
what you have to say convincing”
with outrage and incredulity “but
am not asking to be convinced.” Lard
dripped from the ceiling through the floor
of the butcher’s shop upstairs; our den
was getting hazardous, bordering on the
uninhabitable but we were loath to give
it up, not now, not now the breath
stopping, stinking cold was heaped up
at our and everyone’s knocking shop door.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment