You, who section out the broken Window's fragmentary glaze In gold, auroraborealis ruins that shake The scattered genet weedlings here of late, 5 Untranslatable deathcard of all hate, Who full-sail mocks the sun, know I come to dance beneath your fake Hepatitis curve of being, welcome skater 10 Who deals with a slick grace the last Mother-admonishment to poker hands. Lilies launder moonlight in the lot. A moving silhouette will break their dust: 15 Imagination is its own remorse Recalling ancient beauties, one by one, until The reinvented dead ladies emerge From the trapped torrents of a late laboring mind And coo and call and sveltly wend their way 20 To demand in time imagination's final lie: Its death; at last, to make One monumental animate corpse of fate.
From the collection "The Cabana at the Equator"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.