Won’t catch me stalking the prize cattle of Hyperion
Nor casting baited lines in Ra’s inestimable fishery
While he steers his fiery bark (a theory on
This has Ra ever steering and watching) . Misery
Spares none who stalk and cast like this.
Misery spares none is one way of saying
We all eat the rotten fruit sometimes.
Some see faces going wan, hair graying.
Won’t hear me prattle off some rhymes
To euphemize the slap of felt pain.
But to make a matter of importance plain
(Poets: so many have grown sick of us)
Don’t go hunting and fishing - or flying
For that matter – where, like a flown Icarus,
You catch your own death for trespassing.
[10-8-04 Santa Rosa, CA]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.