Maybe in New England in the Fall
with the trees all plush and plump like fireballs
and the waters still warmed by a patient sun
I'd write the poetry I should have done
when both of us were younger
-innocent indeed-
the world not yet the place
it's since become.
When there was call
for poetry in any case.
We sleepwalk through our days
troubled still by that insuperable dread
of seeing through the horseshit
to the core-
discovering at the core
there's only more of it.
And nothing in its stead.
There's no New England sun
nor trees nor water here,
but the inkling of some grave insidious ill.
A putrefactive sore without a name,
to pulse and swell
and daily drip its gall
into the already
all too shallow well
of common decency
and hope.
This festering seed in fact's
the inspiration and the driving force
behind our daily acts
and words.
And words infect our poetry.
Maybe in New England in the Fall
With the trees all plush and plump like fireballs
And the waters still warmed by a patient sun
I'd write the poetry I should have done
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
words infect our poetry. good one. I invite you to read my poems and comment.