Friday, July 07, 2006

Harm Hill



a candelabra of fingers clutching the dusk

a taste of puppy under the eyelids of touch

Henry wrote me a letter from Bali

there are no dogs or hands wide enough

(except for the wide dogs and wide hands)

to say what must be said

the ghost-king was sad when he swam onto the gravel

there was nothing but grief, sorrow, and distress

on the unpaved road to harm hill

inhabitants! come out of your huts

you are not hostages of your own doom

the sun shines its grief rays on your little hats

doff them and radiate your plum brains with opportunity

let the ghost-king ride his dune buggy off-road and imprudently

green grass green grass puppy dogs and green grass

the world is wide as any dog or as the new words of yesterday


*



(references:

Franks Casket

The Practice of Poetry, Behn and Twitchell, eds."2o Little Poetry Projects," Jim Simmerman, p.119

Image: from here




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