Bells ring as the days move toward snow,
days governed by a different providence,
not this quivering burg of whims and nerves,
as shanty towns move through experience
sleep     encircled hope     here on the wharves
of Costaguana     under a brooding mountain's brow.

The old sabre over the mantle     who would have known
cold steel could cauterize     each heart's high noon?

The word apportions beauty     pride of place
& vanity     while courage opens doors     &
echoing compassions bless
(with mirrored cherubim) your     pulsing search
(Bells droning onward     into the azured arch
silvered toward a frosted     yeast of snows)

Henry Gould | Island Road 11
Contents | Mudlark No. 6