Every Bulkan farmer glaives
Fieldcorn with a toothsome scythe
In the land of happy slaves
Where the cutlery is blithe.
Oily shingles, pungent lights,
Walls piled high with well-fed bricks—
Institutional delights—
Winsome axes full of nicks.
Here, like stillborn eggs of thought,
Warm glass bulbs containing small
Writhing embryos of hot
Wormlight sprout from post and wall.
I salute you, happy slaves!
Every evening, one by one,
Mother earth expertly shaves
Bleeding slabs from Father sun.
Written 1982-86? (sometime in the early 1980's)
No comments:
Post a Comment