Photograph by Steve McCurry
An Easter Sonnet
The sound of graveyard shovels never ceases.
Chrysanthemums and soldiers fall apart.
I weep while watching MALCOLM IN THE MIDDLE.
A child's enormous green eyes stab my heart,
and butterflies, so beautiful and mute,
are snacks for roosters scratching in the dirt.
Eventually, it seems, all turns to shit,
except, of course, for Bach and Jesus Christ.
So lick an ice cream cone like Wallace Stevens,
cram I.R.A.s and cell phones up your ass,
mesmirize yourself and all your neighbors,
and never stop to analyze your dreams.
The memorandum: Poke the warm vagina
of panda wife at bamboo grove in China.
Harvey Goldner
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