Lust burns, decays--     a glaring half-life
Time's false staff leads     to oblivion.
Time staffs the dining hall     with frothing strife
(brief-basking dogmatists     define, refine)

& hurtles doomside-down     my send-up heart.
Eyes & mouth     breasts     back & legs--     just so--
three find it delicious--     & a fourth
sinks,     faithless,     in a crate     at Sutton Hoo...

Still     in your palm     (wide     as the Black Sea)
these sheaves of tears     ferment,     compost to wine--
one shady gulf     & odalisque     Eternity
you enter     ruby-scarved, O     purple     vine--

across tall buildings,     seas     a single band
will intercede for me--your     tendriled     hand.

Henry Gould | Island Road 66
Contents | Mudlark No. 6