We
land today at the port of Vicksburg in our
Scarred leather and wreaths of stinking roses
These
complicated blossoms that smell like rough
Night-heavy sex with a faint trace of pain then
You
smile and I think that finally I’m the svelte hero
You
hoped for but never dreamed would come
A
sword in one fist a bouquet in the other O happy
Birthday
America here’s a strange sunrise suffused
With
odors I can’t choose between their fine
Fingers
lifting me loftward which is not to say up
You’d
think the best things in life were free as dead
Flowers and scar-marred grins but in a sense these
Days
don’t add up to a life do they? And it's not
Your birthday yet this is all so terrifically premature
No comments:
Post a Comment