His Last Of Lydia
Lovely Lydia
let me leave you
at last.
Our time is ended;
our tryst is passed.
The lyric poet
must be young
and speak
with yearning
of the unobtainable -
but I have obtained,
if not Lydia,
a certain mean
satiety.
The Venetian Gondolier
Horizontal slats.
The vestibule blind
is a gondola
out of control,
steered by
a drunken oars man
thru canals
of drunken light,
which may be shaded,
if memories abated
and he pulls
the drawstring
for a tour
of the shadows
of the antique city
of my living room.
Wendy
You wow me!
Where are you?
At least
let me
woo you.
O Wendy
O w(h)en?
Weren't you
so happy with me
then?
Many moons pass
over Seattle,
and I'm still
the savage,
while you are gone
on high to Mt. Rainier
and hang in the sky
like a cloud.
Your spell lingers
like the white lilac.