Middle Ground

      Abandoned by our party in the garden park
      of Avon, I feel you shaken
      with a queasy stiffness; brackish
      as our garbaged New Jersey beach
5     something's rising, radiant-spiked,
      rising, rising, to burst as light...
      Rocketing up from your ulcer's pit
      I ask myself, what is it, what is it?
      O how often have your hysterical, profound
10    distemperate electricities hit ground!
      Spliced fire shams and sparks
      the matchstick held between us in the dark.
      Now undone by age, the spooky, loved
      hegemony of our plush masonic torch
15    putters into mush in the gutted mud
      of the here and now, fading vivant, untouched.
      Still here after thirty remorseless years
      and too weak to laugh ourselves to tears,
      we lean like water against the sand:
20    No world will hate what we cannot stand.
      Still posting for our finished race
      we stand outlined, awaiting grace
      that creeps against the boardwalk
      and seethes between the planks that cut our feet.
25    Once, aching with a haltered wish to win
      and chalked white by spindly dawn
      we cantered to our easy beginnings and scoffed
      Bruno Latini on the loser's green.
      Remember winning? Scarred by crusts
30    we cannot forget, that cannot forget us.
      Once, swelled by dreams, we labored down
      the awkward, parnassian slope, and stumbled
      crown over crown when we attempted Ararat...
      Religion had us stoned, overloading
35    our middleaging ballast, filled
      with stones; they sat soldierly,
      round, white, yellow, white, alone.
      Look at what our childish
      urgent hands have crushed!
40    An Atlantis lays buried between us.
      When the fatal plane zeroes on my heart,
      faint Fay Ray with cactus drink in hand,
      unerring in the air, amazed, alert,
      will you, love, move where I hurt,
45    or like the gruesome Gorgon sprouting hooks
      spit useless fire still, caught in the traffic's brawl?
      Conspicuous the loss of consciousness....
      rehabilitation the final joke of our crowd.
      Concentrating on the unmediated throb
50    I think of you, myself, eyeing the prop.

 

From the collection "XXX Sonnets"

Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]

More information available on gregglory.com.