Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Monday, March 28, 2011

Voice


London streets, dark trodden alleys
slippery with broken fruit.

Berwick cockney sellers are calling
a gut literature of English,
a map of the Empire,
in all it's spoken forms,

Every sound the British throat can make,
at home and abroad.

Stravinski's fire bird wore feathers
sent from all directions,
gifts from the Prince.

Suddenly, I fear that I could be murdered,
and my murderer might not know her own mind.

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