Senor Heaney cannot drop
A flat vowel
Into bog, well, meadow,
Without mincing words,
Snouts of riffraff, cow,
And calf, blowing Blague,
And blowing into turf-teats,
Into some smalltalk of Broagh.
SONG
caught / in the cold snows of a dream.
--Yeats
Lines of early Spring
Ripen, recede,
Dwarf the morning star
Staggering in.
Day gnaws at a pace
Beneath the mind
Of man and beast
And root and rock, changes
The business of becoming
Whole
To peace
Peace among
The quiet race
Of Spring so
Dumbly brought in.
So much this Spring,
This need.
GTimothy Gordon has recent fiction and poetry in Dos Passos Review, Evansville Review, Saltzburg Poetry Review, and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review. A poem has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
