Henry Gould



from Stubborn Grew the Rose


              It begins with the headache of a rational animal.
              Sepulchred, perhaps, in a whitened rhyme
              or bibliophile's musty drawers - reflective rim
              or echo chamber, some titanic scuttled shell.
  
              And you lose the thread, and this is the thread.
              Purpled, from the mordant notebook,
              from the charitable extinct awk's
              last corkscrew into a cup of molten mead,
    
              like lead.  The chorus and audience withdraw.
              You are alone with the sound of an evening of a swing.
              Here's the church, here's the steeple... here's the door.

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