2055. HART CRANE PARTIALLY

HART CRANE PARTIALLY

When I was a young man in the dark New

York cold, I read my Hart Crane and swore

I'd never get old.

-

Now, windows have been shuttered with the

planks of indecision. Reason itself mars the

table with its jagged knife marks gouging.

The swooning sun, the sunning moon,

everything out of kilter, fading soon.

-

I make my meek adjustments to the

world beyond my window. I do nothing

to disturb the frost and the cold. I remember

Jack Frost, when that name was given to

the spindly ice lines along the glass.

I caress the lost kitten found on the curb.

-

My poetry slams doors, opens doors, and

shatters walls and windows - all things

at once. I want nothing more than to be that

which best I can be : listen up! : 'Thy face

from charred and riven stakes, O Dionysus,

thy unmangled target smile.'