Want the feel of next month's
Never-to-be-crumpled sunlight
That snuggles in unbelievable
Dug-outs now, bedeviled.
THE SHRINE
Frederick Bock
A double highway little used in early spring
Goes to the end of the land where Washington's chandeliers
Are kept his beds and chairs his roped off relic kitchen
Spits his pans his floors are worn underneath the dead
Pilgrims' feet; outside, the not-so-visited tomb;
And over the field and fence his legendary river:
And so I walk although the day is cold for this
I eat a thin slice of bread and one remarkable
Egg perfectly shaped a perfect oriental por–
Celain sheen of white. Suddenly the lost
Ghosts of
his
life broke from trees and from the cold
Mud pools where he played a boy and set as
.a
man
The sand glint of his boot, the flick of his cot on the weeds,
His wheels click in the single road.
John Logan
