|
THE
BIRTH OF VENUS
I,
lame god, hide, muttering in my teeth,
stuck
in this cliff-hole of an executive suite
where
fingers peck typewriters; tide-streams beneath
of
taxis and malcontents lick, seethe and bleat.
Waiting
for her to be born, my Venus, bride.
What
rescue from the plate-glass, grim forge of London?
A
vapouring where boil my sight lines, where fried
car
tops gleam frolicsomely, car-fumes wanton.
...
(For full text see
the Kindle ebook The
Nature of Things (Collected Poems) by Alan Marshfield)
top
of page |
