POEMS
HENRI COLE
Folly
In
th e Do ri a Pamphili ga rden ,
most of th e g ranite ni ches are empty,
the male gods have los t their geni tals,
and the G rea t Mo th er, H era, has no head.
Somethin g has gone awry
in the artifi cial lake.
Burrowing deep into th e black banks
enclosed by w ire mesh ,
famili es of nutria are eradi ca ting–
with webbed hind feet,
blunt mu zzled heads
and lo ng o range incisors-
Pope Inn ocent X 's pleasure ga rden's
eco-sys tem .
Go thi c as th e unconsc ious,
the heavy tapered bodi es
root alo ng th e irri ga ti o n ditches,
making their way in a criminal tro t
towa rd th e swa ns, w hose handsome,
eccl es iJs ti cJl wings open a LIt
oblivio usly.
Each day I come back.
Th e sky is Della
l~obbi J
blu e.
As I ri se to my feet,
a swan- immac ulate
and self-possessed as the ambulance
bea ring my half- dead Mother–
grasps into th e depths
