Harm Hill
a candelabra of fingers clutching the dusk
a taste of puppy under the eyelids of touch
Henry wrote me a letter from
there are no dogs or hands wide enough
(except for the wide dogs and wide hands)
to say what must be said
the ghost-king was sad when he swam onto the gravel
there was nothing but grief, sorrow, and distress
on the unpaved road to harm hill
inhabitants! come out of your huts
you are not hostages of your own doom
the sun shines its grief rays on your little hats
doff them and radiate your plum brains with opportunity
let the ghost-king ride his dune buggy off-road and imprudently
green grass green grass puppy dogs and green grass
the world is wide as any dog or as the new words of yesterday
*
(references:
The Practice of Poetry, Behn and Twitchell, eds."2o Little Poetry Projects," Jim Simmerman, p.119
Image: from here
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