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WASTE
BASKET
Will
it hold the thick drips of a harpsichord?
Place
it upon the sill, a wicker bowl.
The
air steers round. This is a
plain bad dole.
A
wire nest even the moon won’t put its flakes in.
Dead
brazier, or is it a stringy brain?—
Made
at a time when origins would agree,
to
lantern, blear-blue, our queer destiny.
Earl’s
helm, perhaps, or rickety spittoon?
Can
those old phoenixes not here be stored
of
thought and neediness? Gurrah, it’s seen
that
sort of service out. Yet still, I mean,
will
it hold the soft drops of a harpsichord?
Alan
Marshfield
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