06/29/2010 § Leave a comment

Once upon a time
in Florence, Italy,
he spent afternoons
moulding sinews for Muses nine.

Now he sits on a hillside
with a naked heart
& his fingers are gnarled.

This is no way for a man to spend an eternity,
hugging himself in perpetual twilight.

Though Dante and Virgil together
could not spur him toward the pearly gates,
I’d like to think that one day

he will rise up & run
down slope shouting

a madman, wayward bound

one step at a time.

(Fall 2010)


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Belacqua at Poetry and Other Things.


%d bloggers like this: