And rotting, lazily observe
That one sure bet, the sportsman's dream,
Come plodding round the backstretch curve .
Black nodding plumes, black gleaming feet,
Your father in the coachman's seat.
Phillis Levin
PRISONERS' ROUND
After the etching
by
Gustave
Dare
and the painting
by
Vincent van Gogh
Every day they file into the courtyard,
And gathering round into the round
Each, in his turn, is caught
In the morning light-
Like numbers on a clock
With a turning face
And broken hands,
Or a teeming waterwheel
Groaning in the sun.
Anointed by this light, one
Forgets they are prisoners
Facing another day: the sun
Out of their picture,
The walls drawn close and blue,
While the yellow of a dandelion
Seeps through cement
Cracked with a hunger
We attribute to things that kill.
