Say You, Sightseer — Journeyman’s Poems
A Caught Babe in the Snow — The Belief in It.
Mind you, if I may to the farrows; hillocks; brambles; and cooling foliage, left to waste by the waysides — to your wayside, I would venture to hope.
Might I confine with you this conjuring spell,
Naught large, only refined in oft overblown scale:
’Tis kismat, and ’tis not, for she that bides
The lawful lot.
Come loud, come trusting to the gate
That sure segregates a frown into you
Say you, a humbled lot, made down by
The sightseeing behesting knock
Come twice; come thrice
Armed not, for one who has shot
First, loses the soul last — when it comes
Tiding to an elected thing.
Come now, come again: Say you, Sightseer,
I for one — the blond and abjected one
Electric and paced to a weeper’s trident cell
Blue and had-been blue, for a dime, cheapening
And a corpse as well — not be made
As I am final, for a dime made thrice
Is an awful spell.
Continue on, I shall ado
For twice folded, is all this abled fool can do.
Feel as I must, for a snippet in the dark
Whereas the losing art is made into steel
I shall be mystic, betoken, I shall be
For once had, is never spoiled to veal
Come now — Come now, my dearest
If for I, was twice as appearing;
Let me appear, cleaving to be gone
And disappearing.
A distraught image so finds you —
But you won’t believe it,
Of the Hounds cuddled up
Against the slouched body of his
Master —
You won’t believe it;
Neither will you call.
A caught babe in the Snow — I know.
The belief in it — as I segway away
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