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Reflected in a limpid pool, the ghost of Romanticism chews tobacco. He has moved and, wanting, now lives in North Carolina, but this is a poem of a desert; held captive, a sun dare not cease to shine; as if all the rainfall in the world is captive to the honour of sustaining life. The oldest woman in the world dies, her heart ever so slightly broken by the seeming extinction of eligible frogs. Let’s call our ghost John and as he prepares to leave for the fields Elysian he spits a wad. The matchless honour of sustaining life. |
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