Why can't each diminished, moroser, I in Me turn an instant hero of human liberty? Where is the halt in hydrangeas that lash, or in the coldness of the foyer at midsummer? 5 The hero unfolds, like a completed page, out of the red book of poems the poet has made; scintillate lines of moonlight, or sultry writings of the sun all are one, are one. The aurora of midnight, exuding ichorous blacks, 10 the poem of noon dripping saffron wax, all, all are one, are one, with the hero of tinsel who eyes up the sun.
From the collection "A Volcano Island"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.