In me you see the evening.     Gold dust
a yellow level     bled     bubbled     wavering toward
black night.     Russian rug on the study floor
Mongolian-eyed     knighted     squared     grandmastered

On a gray New England October day.
Slow gray streets spangled with coral &
curled toward Hibernian sleep.     My
green Sears Constellation all that remains

& it was yours.     Stars wheel overhead
no consolation only an alphabet of levers and pulleys
tackle of a speech machine.     So much
revolves around the idle pinprick of a queen
so pale     so small     her sheepish finger strays &
stirs divided memories once left for dead.

Henry Gould | Island Road 8
Contents | Mudlark No. 6