too ra loo ra
come on Eileen
we will creel across
the wicker moon
burning the night with love
a blackburn
to forget the
rain
I swear
I am a fox at this moment
pathetic and domesticated
by trash-cans
and suburban plastic patios
I’m tired and my muscles are fat
you hawk
more brindle than I
(or maybe sophisticated)
the kind of nuance that curls round the
edge of a wing in flight
the rareness of meaning that supports
our soaring traces
I’m waiting for you
in a noisy glen
under a billboard
for your raptorial coupling
to slip into my spine
and penetrate the nerve
that will make me a hunter
again
| Ron Green |
|
