Thursday, April 24, 2014

Flowers of Zion

"The world a hunting is"

From such heights as Kevin Young would know,
I watch the desert spring gather force.
What pressure the liquid world's under.
What happened to the wind with that name
Young Zapruder couldn't remember?
Katabatic? Skeletal? Pleasant?
Never mind. The time is never time
In the minds of sage philosophers,
New age gurus and cosmologists.

You don't go in for guru-ing if,
Like a squirrel, you pick fruits in the green
Garden of earthly delights, nearly dead
All the time. Man down. Man going on.
One giant leap for mankind. Antsy
As jam sandwiches at a picnic,
We writhe. The moon will not be our moon
Until the poets have been allowed
To wander seas of tranquility

And produce names no astronomer
Would have found suitably celestial.
Then, at long last, we will have something
New to forgive and apostrophize:
The virtues, their images destroyed.
Helene Johnson, where her gnarled tree stood,
Welcomed the wet, weeds, and wildflowers,
And why not, while the earth remained warm,
The soil still vowing its eager vows?

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