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#1  [p]Ippolit and the Swan Ippolit and the Swan Of summer evenings he sits, in silence By a window overlooking. Lying in his lap A loaded swan. A single song in its carriage Prepared— His own mark of truth, thus bleeding The chair, surpassing memory. A cough escapes the stillness, condenses On the window obscuring. He sees the trees as through A morning mist. Then notices some blood mingled In the frost— Prophesies the end, left drying On the window, his innocent blood. Through the mist a drooping bush, her pretty White-petal flowers falling. Recalling now a dance He once saw. On a pond suddenly rippled by A cough— The pure-white petals, now drowning In spattered blood, recalled from death. This his winter dogwood bleeding through the Verdant summer leaving. In a glimpse the window’s glass A Meyer’s wall. Through which the bleeding shrub’s virtue Cannot pass— An image distilled, as though darkly Through a glass, bows its head to age. Taking in his right hand, the loaded gun To the wall pressing. Searching with the barrel he finds A brittle temple. A wall to separate the spheres— He fires— All the broken glass, falls tinkling The swan’s warbling song ringing clear. Last edited by chionos; 07-28-2009 at 06:56 AM.. Reason: forgot "[p]" |
07-28-2009, 06:52 AM
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