Prior Cantos Pound

Prior Cantos Pound

Hill crest,

take your lips with me as healing as hell to sinners and beginners with the destiny finally argued out of existence.

It is up to chance and effort now.

Some mud people put foot prints on the rock and wove us in their song.

The hill people, up all night with their fire, put us in their hearts and started to gamble,

to begin again and again. Sumptuous trap of selves but also a nest of eggs.

We low bellies and troubadours with our wooden shoes and vats make the sticky from bee sex, sweet and honey, moan with your head back, timely as the eternal lover come home at dawn with another. Semblance and explanation expiate his raucous goings on we think and invite the couple in for breakfast.

Snap spine. I need no mind.

I, you, we trigger the tiger of things in his little cup of tea, again propriety and property with a little finger out, shining like the love snatched from the lap of dawn, her curls still wet with the obvious and the oblivious.

Those who lost a few fingers or toes or even shoulders rounded with the old scar pink and smooth where an arm once hung, a leg drooped, a knobbly head on a leash of neck can catch and stretch as a tentative girl looking around the corner, fetching water, doing the bidding of the morning alarm.

I tried to give it all back to you, rummaging, dishing, making plain.

A stiff brown fabric or leather once wet, now left stiff, dry and cracking in the sun.

You owner of me and the tannery blood and the smell by the river where everything lives for a while and folds in later like the bank of the crickets buzzing by the mud.

Things give back the attention we have given and like the next turn, after people, began to make promises to the dark night and stars.

Began to say things like trickle and melt, began to summon an army of one from the deep that moves like so many ants.

So many gnats of the mind’s eye missing its owner.

The same gambler on the hill, now broke, barefoot, creased like the furrows of the world, turned as the sulci of the frontal cortex electrified as the eel and the silicon and the valley of frogs with their low croak groaning.

She and I lean back our sex heads, peeled like a vegetable, open as a blanket, rough, sandy concupiscence.

Such is the trade of the near highway, the sound of sand’s sad traffic,

a multitude had a moment. You remember yours.

Vulnerable as a membrane between the dry earth and the rushing river

conceived as no other

holding up its turtle back of the world,

its bribes for lesser deities to be sure and tempted

by our promises of sin, embodiment and release.

The angels want a warm cup of coffee too.

It is the morning after and time to go.

Sun on soft shoulders, hairy hills and published grapes given to wine stains of promiscuity.

Following out the trail as of tears and bread crumbs, as of your feelings for parting

and the waters after we have come together.

Sonorous, symbiont, occluded by heaven in the eclipse of the sky by her eye.

Tiny is the mite. Enormous is the wheel of the will and the wind carries out beyond the shore the dust it rubbed from the ore and as we lift, high beyond eye of mind retired to a comfortable platitude, the altitude, refraction and particles thin as smoke eek and drop back on the sheen rambling surface of the ever deep waves where by sediment and sentiment we sink.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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