POEMS
REVENGE
The cart rocks in the hollow night,
Cart crammed with somnambulist Turks,
The clouds follow in slow delight
This crowd asleep, hands on their dirks.
The moon's horn scratches me awake . . .
All these mustachio'd ones in my power!
From my story-book armory I take
My bow and seven arrows, lower
The window, turn down the lights;
Then, when the cart comes reeling into dawn,
For all my stolen girls, guitarless nights,
I avenge myself on these uncles one by one.
Harold Rosenberg
RUMORS OF REAL
ESTA
TE
He speaks of a white room showing
Barest at night, shadowed only
By the lamp under which his cat,
White as well, warms in a brightness
Of refusals. Of course there are
Imperfections, but until now
He has been able to shut them
Up or away, into darkness
Behind the blank of
his
white doors.
Naturally we all suspect
Some other sort of chamber where
He works his living out, warden
