Epode#3 Poem by robert dickerson

Cloud, the color of basalt, Nico,
when will you know me?

OK, penance is wonderful, but enough-
far more casually we are saved.

A marble torso in a cardinals' bed chamber
could do it;

the tooth of Venus in a glass
could do it;

Parma violets
could do it;

A skiff with a light on it
couldn't. You

are the definition
of maybe, or,

something like attention, up
to the grab of winds.

Rub
your salty presence into this ring. Admit

a blonde on a motor cycle is
what you want like everyone else