hide kingly men behind whitedrape curtains.
In hell the remote unsung telescope
peeps the house on the hill, & conjectures
why, if heat rises, does it stay so low?
Because hell is hot and heaven is high,
heroin sweat stays bought and cicadas
cry their plaintive cry: the man on the hill
doesn't listen, he makes ladies' designer
shoes, & teaches his son the cowboy's way,
that one must wait patiently in ambush
to make those who hold no febrile addiction
sweat for once, & pay dear a king's ransom.
If hell overtakes heaven, and the heat
rises to swarm the cool, telescopes crack
no matter, and the flat earth stays deadflat.
The demon who spied the man on the hill
confronts him, behind steel bars as behind
white curtains, now upclose, but more obscure,
inscrutable, his airconditioned face
stoic & satisfied by new success.
Because hell is hot and heaven is high,
heroin sweat stays bought and cicadas
cry their plaintive cry: the man from the hill
doesn't hear, his face dissembles its thought,
and the demon, maddened by the sanguine
faceless face, writhes & clasps the steelwire bars,
learning that heaven's height reflects hell's low.
...
No comments:
Post a Comment