The New World
You've left me by myself and I fall to pieces into the river.
It's the same voice, this time between 3 and 4 a.m.;
four lies about blondes. Boom, a quiet sun. I still like
toast and jam, in fact I feel like toast and jam; it's spring,
1961, an invoice; I'm selecting poems to be read in the villages
and in front of the troops on horseback.
It's the grand opening all over again. There's not a scar
left on the patient; an empty stomach, we see a souvenir. The
victim is an American scholar, his life and loves. It is time
to look in the dictionary. It is time to go to the airport. What
a day to take pictures. I make my living by taking pictures and
selling them. I cannot be angry with myself. The parachutes
sway in the wind. Now his head is up and his feet are down.
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Comments about this poem (The New World by Tony Towle )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
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