Yet something of the lover will, poor lubber,
Glint like the not quite sullied pebble,
Past the fish in the undertow, the cripple
Of tides; for the sea
is
implied in each puddle,
And the sea's lashing lashes the gossip
Of small rain in the drains or on rubble.
Lubber, from the last silence of stone and rubble,
Sing over the dust's gossip, cry to the pebble,
That love, Light's cripple, lay on your puddle!
Louis Simpson
BROOKLYN FLATS
As
I went down to Brooklyn Flats
Five engines jetted in the wind
Faster than the speed of sound
Swerving in unison like rats.
That's why I weep and cannot sleep.
I saw a poster of my You,
A laughing girl of giant size.
Upward between her purple thighs
Someone had nailed a horse's shoe.
Whose thudding kick will make men sick.
Then turning for an older view,
The little sun the snailing sea
And chapel bells that tinkled tea,
An echo said it wouldn't do.
Where suns and moons are parson's spoons.
Tonight, in absence of the truth,
No angel seems so strong and fair
Nor winged as those five engines were,
And till a star groWs bright with ruth
I will adore what I abhor.
