Saturday, October 17, 2015

The Road to Damascus, via Miami

False-casting inclined imitative of the midge snuffles the sconce;
My circumventive theory of mind provokes a frigid response
In those for whom lies are valueless catacombs, catacombs, sealed,
And who do not note fundamental wordings in Hayden, Masefield,
Keats and Cummings as properties of truth. I felt this jarring
Rigor by false-cast in its other meaning, when someone, barring
The sheath I was wearing, lay there suddenly tense. The sheath repulsed
Just as my making things up would do; and the artist sprawls convulsed
Upon the sand dunes, hugging himself so that the lower left flap
Of the tweed jacket bequeathed by his father makes elegant gap
Of grief, riding over towards his right shoulder.