Helios Empty-Handed


What if I hear in cummings plight, a
Solitary beat, a click of chamber, turned,
Or deep within the whiskeyed night, say,
Milton calling with hope metrical, spurned,

Wait! Wait! It is the voice, only in the head,
Voices, plural, which whisper from graves, say,
What if travels through the deep, in canoes’ stead,
Carry Elliot and Pound, eternally from night to day,

Then we must hold them, prodding with haunt,
Like ash in vessels of fired clay, which,
Shake and rattle upon the moon rise – gaunt,
November rains, December snows, ice-cold,

About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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