Site hosted by Build your free website today!

Never Thunders in Hades

Lights of Radio Towers in the sky
like cars on an empty turnpike
when the night is full
& the stars are writing Petrarchin Sonnets
‘in every voice: in every ban/the mind-forg'd manacles I hear’
where once there were greenfields
rivers & mountains I held in my hand
she thunders when the night is full
& I don't understand
watching her dress like rain
for starry evenings
coaches wait beneath her balcony
her balcony of roses, her famous bed of caresses,
her mirror of tears & the smile which blesses
& the smile that cheats
you out of your last Ace of Spades &
who but she could hear the thunder
that never thunders in Hades?
who so question the universe?
or this scene of private passion which you must rehearse?
who but she, watching the coaches, stars, & rain
& pulling on her dress of lilies' pain
will smile a perfumed grin &
ask you to love her again?
the hottest room in the house, & the
seams of her blouse & her contact mirrors.
Leaning from her balcony in her star dress
watching the coaches promenade
watching the coaches promenade
when the night is full
reruns of 1950’s comedies on an
off-colour tv & smoking phony cigarettes
smoothing the crease of her dress
& speaking in fragmented whispers
& who but she? When the night is full,
who but she would question the rose
or defy the apple bush or
ask the taxi driver to show her eternity
in the reflection of headlights on moist pavement?
& who, pulling on her dress of stars’ whispers,
would smile her designer grin &
ask you to kiss her again?
her touch you like a river until
you feel like a river & flow her sides like a river
& taste her heart like a living river
when the night is full
the coaches promenade &
Rose was a man with Queen Anne's Lace
in his hand. she could've loved him then
if he hadn't metamorphed into an olive tree
& if that tree were not me
when the night is full
when stars are busy writhing
when her coaches are stars &
who but my Lady would ask the black of coffee
or say, ‘Dancer, dance’
who but she would question the tea bag's strain
who worship the rain,
a cross of rain on her mantel,
who, when the night is full, ask love to explain
& who, pulling on an open-ended dress,
would smile a storefront grin &
ask you to touch her again?
a hearse of lilac search the graveyard
for love's missing ghosts
watching the television towers through a storm
for a clear day signal & tears of silk
on the dining room table &
eyes with miracles for glasses
when the night is full
& who but she would dare the harness
or ask the moon's wax for a song
or interogate the cobblestones
who but she? when the night is full?
& who but she, pulling on lavender graces,
will smile a salvation grin &
ask you to love her again?

who, but my Lady Greensleeves?


Return to Table of Contents