Waiting for the Storm
The
air is lugubrious with impending rain and awaits
The
roll of thunder, the flash of electricity,
all
promised for weeks. The heat never abates,
hangs
from the drooping trees, wanders the city
like
a confused old man, almost always late.
Contumacious
is the night, the weight
Of
contention never resolved or violence released,
Only
expectations, only failures of the state
To
exercise its powers, and all those dark deceased
Followers
dragged by clouds across the slate
Like
squealing chalk designed to irritate.
Our
patience has been tested, and never ceased
Until
the dawn brought dew, and dew a date
That
could not fix itself, unfold what had been creased
And
offer solace where everything was desolate.
In
the Dog Days nothing can be written
And
rhymes back up, rhythms faltering, words mate
Promiscuously,
produce sterile verses
As
when a half-dozing typist dons her heavy mittens
And
goes through sluggish motions—what a fate!
Lugubrious
or not, it’s not epic versus
Tragedy,
but comedy and farce I await.
Winter
masks the carnival of ancient beasts,
The
wrestling bears, the howling wolves, the wodewoses
And
the gnarled old faces of the fairies, all the feasts
Of
archaic ritual, all the disguises and grotesque poses,
And
all the magical chants, dances and orgies,
Muffled
mummery, witches, all a mockery of Moses
After
his descent, the mount, tablets raised,
His
eyes adjusting to the scene—naked breasts
And
dangling genitals around a bovine idol—
Then
everything the Law declared had to be rephrased
From
shards of rage, and anger everywhere to bridle,
Thus
giving to the inarticulate and bullish model
New
meanings for a nameless deity,
Unrhymed
and silent in the Holy City.
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