Roy Marz
TWELFTH STREET
The swan bathes in the rose alpenglow
And the chestnut trees bloom at the Golden Fly;
The band on the esplanade plays Gounod
And snow is on the
peak
through the hot July ...
He who majored in urns under Keats and Yeats
Leaves the resonant image to face the street:
Mind, you are given to yesterday's rat and ham-hock,
The coward sun, the inert clutter and huddle
Of auto parts and pets, the damp look
Of women come from mass, the familiar mutter
Of old men who could not sleep, and the children
Sleep-stung who stand in the fog and sharpen.
Here on my street I am numbered and want it so,
Here on my image named and free to toss
Delicate bread to the rose swan, but I know
The length of the stiff rat I step across
And why stunned music of gong and hammer
Is in me deeper than reach of song.
Barbara Guest
PEOPLE IN WARTIME
Attilio, the minor Hun,
Rose with the sun.
Washed
his
face
In a little grape
And cried, This is
1.
