SIRENS 258-259
The smoke of the past- raised, grazed impatience-
The smoke of the past- raised, grazed impatience-
the smiles fall in waves. The lately moons
lay in the arms of Daedalus, unrecognized and unanswered,
arriving with a certain thickness now near, now forgotten.
Who looks for me? My muse’s song is on my lips the
tune so long in the day as to be taken
for a jingle- a fable not noticed but on the bill, none-the-less.
The rote bell and hell’s piano take it up and the streaming
concert now has meaning. A minstrel sings of the labor of
a famous sea, its duty to receive the fallen forms of the vain and risky.
Here, now, god’s brilliant bastard, on the back of a mermaid rising,
hands out the wires and keys. Can mercy and grace be so near?
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