Treasure Island

Adam Fitzgerald

(12/30/1983 / Staten Island, New York)

Dirge


Out of seaweed mermaid wood
The wit of snowbird shadows
Crowds your lip where no word
Has known ferns or urn-songs.

Out of seaweed mermaid wood
A fringe of wild poppies drops
Where grassy bones have stood.
Your lip is singed & poppy red.

The wit of snowbird shadows
Sings to cable-cars like ether.
A scalded alder sits in blue aloe.
Your lip sits and thinks of there.

Crowd your lip where no word
Will sob like untouched violins
Nor crawl as the spider Christ.
This air, which we have heard,

Has known fern or urn-songs;
As you have culled a shroud
Of should that holds no wrong.
You did no evil in your death.

Out of seaweed mermaid wood
The wit of snowbird shadows
Crowds your lip where no word
Has known ferns or urn-songs.

Submitted: Friday, September 22, 2006
Edited: Saturday, September 18, 2010
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