Resurrection of Time Now Dead By a Poet Going Blind, 86

RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 86

Who was my parent before mammals evolved?
Helen of Tory, Leda's daughter,
was born out an egg,

But her progenitor was only a fake swan,
a god. Was mine a prototype
of a red headed woodpecker?

No, I would today be a drummer, or a player
in the tympani section of a symphony orchestra.

Could be an ancestor of a rat
with fine poetic fur, but with a style
maligned by sellers of rat poison?

Was it one of those small animals
that look like the beard of Peter Bembo
and talked about Platonic love?

No, because, if so, my walls, would be
filled with, instead of a Winter Haven girl,
pictures of Beatrice d'Este.

Perhaps, it was a Giant Tortoise
with a design on back of his shell.
No, I would have painted like Paul Klee.

No, no, no, I'll never know.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Sentinel Poetry