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Oxen of the Sun 406
He is young, now
Reading the months and days
So he can say to himself
“I have a lucky heart.”
But the name of change is fulfilled
In the shadows and rain
His sons come close and hold up the mirror
To his dark eyes and he sees himself
A knight errant
A royal flood
The terror of the world
The breath of twilight which wills the darkness
Beholden to morning he flees this illusion
And recedes into this hard day
Where he exchanges substance
With the mist.
For Paul Yarmoluk
1 comment:
"I don't care" is a real joy. Frozen like a Degas, and itching to be a Steadman ~~yet all Tracy in balance, rhythm and character vagueness. Keeps me attached to the art as does your Yarmoluk poem; decidedly my favorite of your writings... makes me sad and worried.
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