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Taut muscles of the city,
Hard gavel without pity,
And nowhere a breast
To rest.
Old broom of witch
And lolling bitch,
Or evening maw
And whore:
The city scares
And breeds hot mares
Of night that rear
Too near.
Some thinnest veil
Or skimming sail
Gales rip to show
The shadow.
The past is a grove
Where lovers love
In shade far away
From the day.
All else is dark
But the city's park
A forest of lamps
Stamps
A coin of square gold
From a circle of old
And on its face
In place
Of the long-falling haven,
The scalp now clean-shaven,
And eyes that would disown
My own.
Michael Buhagiar
| Submitted Date |
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Wednesday, November 14, 2007 |
| Submitted Date |
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Monday, April 25, 2011 |
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by
Michael Buhagiar
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