Pieces of the past arise out of
the
rubble. Which
evokes Eliot and
then evokes Suspicion.
Ghosts
all of them. Doers of
no good.
The past around us is deeper than.
Present events defy us, the past
Has no such scruples. No funeral
processions for him. He
died
in agony. The cock
under the thumb.
Rest us as corpses
We poets
Vain words.
For a funeral (as I live and
breathe
and speak)
Of good
And impossible
Dimensions.
Jack Spicer
First poem
for The Nation,
Second poem
for Poetry Chicago
Book of Magazine Verse
© 1966 by
Robin Blaser
