Tuesday, June 9, 2009


I haven't communed with Emily here for a while, yet this is her time of year. After all, themes of death and endless self-consciousness weren't the whole story, even for her.


My Garden -- like the Beach --
Denotes there be -- a Sea --
That's Summer --
Such as These -- the Pearls
She fetches -- such as Me


Partake as doth the Bee,
The Rose is an Estate --
In Sicily.


There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt --
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait --

Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness -- is Noon.


Between the form of Life and Life
The difference is as big
As Liquor at the Lip between
And Liquor in the Jug
The latter -- excellent to keep --
But for ecstatic need
The corkless is superior --
I know for I have tried

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Oh, I wholeheartedly agree -

the corked life is not worth living. A life that ends in uncorked sobriety is overhung and underdone like a bleeding steak that's still stuck to its cow, mooing for want of cooking.