A Thirst Against

There is a craving appetite for order,

but a thirst against. What if

every time a flower forms in the mind,

something gives it away to time?

Leaf by means of petal, by leaf. As if the inner man

were a blotter of this world

of the greater, the wetter, the more

tired, the more torn. All singing,

but no sonnet Hamlet darker than night.

And poor Ophelia les than the flowers

she wore. the couple lost. One dead,

the other to tread on the heels of soon.

One too heavy, individual too frail.

Both finding themselves among the fallen.

Each time I think, it is here

that the maker lives. Right around here,

in this terrible, ruined place

with roads made desolate by neon,

in midwinter and freezing winds.

In these Chicago avenues.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Sep/Oct 1999

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