If the Alamo had a boat house I would be in it
writing a poem – sons of clean-calved Texans – while curtained
by a rose of green heartwood too lush for this desert stone sacrament.
Hailed by Travis and hurricanes
these staged stones may have baked for a few days, sucked blood, and fell silent; had not
teams of signing ladies laid it plain.
Had they pitted in the lofts of Pharos,
cadre would have lightning roped-a pyramid
instead of sticking idly by four palace walls, sweating drear night, and a fruitless homestand.
Boathouse stays humming through reverie
Five electric fans, green grass, and thee.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment