|
 47.
Notesmell, that bitter green
On waxy linen vellum all engraved
Wraps your shoulders like a lawn shawl
All redolent of safety in Numbers, Freedom
In bottomless accounts, the purebred Fantasie of clasping
The unclaspable, finally sleeping, allowing yawns to hit home
And quell the electric panic.
48.
Here we go 'round the cabbage bush. Here we go
Spinning so close to the rotating knives the smell of the
Heat of the metal portends our end.
I will not knuckle under I will not buckle
Nor flex my knees to your green goddess
Whose sheafs are legion, whose shocks are wonderful in the sun
And whose mows are maws
To drive us in and herd us 'round, encattled by dogs
Who are bred to do just this, just this.
The sign of the dollar, the sign of the cross,
Both tined to skewer, pointed to spit.
Your swordlike tongue the harbinger of it.
| |
