April showers bring May flowers
Is what she said.
I remember those flowers,
Knotted together garlanding your head
As if you were a child Caesar or a
Dionysian dancer. As you entered
The room cold and dripping, your flowers
Dropped, brown buds dripping,
We spent the summer wishing for breeze
And the winter for snow. And up in the hills
You called me with memories of fires
And rusted sleds, of beautiful youth
Flying down hills.
And as I held you, you said,
All the while the Brook had me memorizing Eliot.
“here is no water only rock”
With flowers in your hair!
And thunder with no rain
Tell each Hercules to rid the world of forest!
As we build the alter the Thunder brewed.
“dry sterile thunder without rain”
the Brook made me recite.
The thunder is the Word, and the Word the thunder.
And we built the alter, to see the fire come.
Amidst the smoke of felled forest, two ravens soared
The One-Eyed-Father now fully blind
Is a sacrament to himself.
The Everyman, the hero of the third age, rinsed off his cock
Before putting on his pants to leave.
This jungle is his city. He takes what he wants,
He is free to do what he can, and he can.
And this jungle, the jungle of broken words
–did you look at every likeness?
–are you sure that’s him?
The most rotten fruit made the most appealing
With each twist of a word the world turns more
Until the wheel re-turns and the city is a jungle
“Unreal city!”–I recite
The birth of nations is not like the birth of man,
So is its maturing and its death–
Jove is the sky. Everyman looks out on history
And smiles. His time will come again.
It always will.
You do not scream as you give birth
And look upon history
And never smile.