Saturday, December 1, 2012

Ode to a Language Poet


Dear blustering merciful child, you are the crux
of seesawing seasons; you stand larger than life
on Zarathustra’s back; you speak in riddles,
commanding confused armies.
Oh beautifully unhappy, oh gracefully resigned,
you are a cat perched long-limbed on a chimney
somewhere. You are an alchemist,
making mercury from gold in greasy pans.