In The Ascendancy Of Spring Poem by Joseph Martin III

For S.P.1932-1963

i
Winter takes leave.
for you
a little too late-

The deed is done.

Crawled inside
your monoxide womb-
the blood jet capped,
so no words squirt through.

First,
Second,
Third time's the charm.

ii
6 a.m.
crimson streaks across the purple sky,
stars perish in waves of fire.
6 a.m.
the devil's hour,
the hour I think of you.
Neither morning nor night,
only something worse.
Like a hole in the universe-
the love seeps out.

There is no salvation in confession
even cupped inside your father's stony ear.
Only words,
dry and crumbling,
fall stillborn from trembling lips.

Artistic madness
leaves much to be desired.

iii
So sleep quietly,
dark and troubled muse.
This world is no place for your kind.

1/1992