Friday, March 10, 2017

The Fading Town

You’ll get used to me,
mile upon mile,
you’ll get used to my crown,
glittering beneath the ground.

I died a long time ago,
an elderly persecuted ego,
with a city built up within me,
and a fading town on the outside.

The trampled outskirts
were far into the marshlands,
and the herons waved their weeping wings,
and swallows croaked—
the frogs would sing.
The victuals of seed
and steel-red berry, beyond
the unutterable wounding
of latent hunger.

You’ll get used to the mighty Stave,
thundering into the open hands
of the powerless,
of the long winding roads
in the damp country,
and the agricultural bushel.

The horses sniff the wind—
they are travellers too,
galloping into the lower field
at night, like we are powerful,
of intellectual orbits
like the long line
of poplars striking the sky.

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