Warren Falcon (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,
I have been taken up into grief, the strange
relief of clouds. Soon departed, I shall be
once again returned to disquieted prayer,
the proud monk to his rites rejoined such
are covers for disjointedness.

Adroit is the spoiled self touching only
late that of Other, of Beauty, Adonais
'dead then' when Mr. Shelley, once young,
now always, has clung 'moderne, 'as much
as, as soon as he can deny, spurn, return
a Vision 'toward the vital air.'

He has the advantage of an Eastern detachment.

I, meanwhile, to walls stick, to
sheets, this cup, full, cannot release.

I step, my foot remains to boards
stuck, must walk inwardly restrained,

halt, try to, misstep, the usual tread
of, with, my heart.

With heart will I to Guatemala go,
a Mayan lover do some good, to active

volcanoes, deepest lake there with
creatures strange - axelotls, pink,

delicate,

and one fountain send where I need
to go - there, continually letting

go the hollows, release the tread
following, and the after-flow;

feeling grief's all, I
follow to where all is fled...