Mowing of the Lawn
He holds the wire from this box of nerves
Praising the mortal error…
from “My Hero Bares His Nerves”, by Dylan Thomas
O what thoughts bait
the mind, the bladder of the head,
the decanter of our past, our present, our future days that led
our feet to a crow-black wall, where we wait?
What hero dares to dwell within my pen?
The Kardomah Café strains its leaves into a dull one.
O grain, barley or rye, wet the dry flesh below his eye; and then,
to type, to sing, to pay for their boat house, his hun
would call a “permanently festering wound”, for none all done.
To bare his side and see his bottle, while pining
over the mortal heirs of turtle doves,
beneath our breasts; O how they howl, those lovesick lining
the Grecian horn god’s green groves, like whippoorwills refraining,
refraining their hearts’ troves.
Red curls replace red plait, unfurls her red, raw meat;
Said she on gurney gruff going, “ennui in Italy after men and wine.”
The blade in mowing of the lawn turns the color of wheat.
And in the window of National Cobble Stone the sight of my heat
for whom I learn that poetry is the detail of a conquered mortal struggle
while in the night we lie down happy to snuggle.