On the Porch with Pound
Venice, evening breezes,
the radio faint from the kitchen,
the parched pain of a life’s labor,
leaves of greatness,
spraying into darkness,
dangling limp in exhausted hands.
Waves of soft moon-dyed mist break purple on the rail,
the bubbles crest,
exploding in canticles of silence.
Daub the salt-stained stigmata,
open the weeping pores,
exude the horrors of hate, deceit,
in a not-forgotten alien race.
Transcend the swimmer of a summer’s night,
who is drowned by the dawn of registered time -
drink this froth of fog with me,
toast the dew of Ezra’s brow.
Author: Craig Kirschner
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