The Tensile Strength of Last Winter's Icicles
_I.M. Ed Dorn_
a cool head takes time
but a cool time gives you head
parried an equine if unexploded blonde
O Miss Polly
give me an infinity you can count on
and three hundredths
and three thousandths
or at least a decent tattoo
and in return have
the use of my retinas
(though I keep the negatives)
they ain't no
then there was the sound
of something natural
jus' wee me
said the cheery sower
trust a German to write
Being on Time
this is for your sadly missing heart
THE RODIN SCULPTURE GARDEN, STANFORD.
Among lines of cypress, in an expanse of pink gravel,
our girls' jaws drop at Art's gap teeth,
at wind chimes where no wind blows,
just a load of naked men and women,
some of them without even arms, legs or a head.
Tangents swarm on their unfinished surfaces:
huge handed females with welts the length of their bellies,
(the Land of Caesareans)
athletic, roughed up homunculi,
(those who contend, creatures of the earth)
torsos ripped out and thrown aside,
decade after decade still conducting heat.
Along the ground
darkness shaped in the attitudes of flight
swoops gaily past our feet.
The girls chase ahead,
carrying my part,
as I carry that of my parents,
down the millennia,
body after body belting out the tune,
the am of me and the who they are
rolling down the terraces
into a sea of voices.
Genevieve, rising three, tries the Gates of Hell,
and kisses the babies of the damned.
Margaret, eight, poses on a empty pedestal.
_Hast Thou not poured me out like milk
and thickened me like cheese?_