Resurrection of Time Now Dead By a Poet Going Blind, 12

Photograph by Rolf Hicker


RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 12


The sun scalds the driftwood,
Its wrists and fingers burn red;
Its fires underline the bleached shells.
Waves lift up to put crystal balls
On long, crystal stems that amaze
As inventories in air mattress factories.
The cactus by the sea is a circus:
On each green oval a performance of black ants.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Jackie Archives