To Those in the Darkened Street

Among cinders and ashes,
Empty beer cans and guitar strings,
They sprawl, chewing ironic blades of grass.
What is the refuse amongst which they sprawl?
Who stirs the nightmare in the sleeping child
In the mansion a thousand years distant?
Seeped in the sewage of four hundred eons
The first seed turned cancerous
But it was not interred.
Now they sport their furtive ware
Hung in the death of shadows
That encloses the moonlight air.
In cadaverous meadows,
Which lift their purchase to the sheltered,
Corrupted, lost in despair, they cry.
The night nourishes this vine root
Clinging to the oak
Held to a magnifying glass
Of dubious respectability.
Now they take to the roof-tops,
In meager candle-light
Take to the garret
That is a den of sighs,
Moth wings and candle dust,
And in the beams ring a thousand muffled knocks.
 

 


About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.