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The Grunge
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EARLY POEMS Clearly this scholar ship is sinking
into the grunge
when the schoolmasters had said
it should be rising
and raging
like a tumbling thunder
across the summer sky.
Perhaps I should dismember
the search party I had sent out
and erase those pages in the diary.
Perhaps I should surrender to them
recapture the game they stalk
recall the guns they stick
through the bamboo
and the amber.
None of this matters, however.
There is always more luggage
and more quarrels I must skirt
and more ways in which I must learn to bend.
Perhaps the answer lies festering somewhere
against tacky patterns of zinc
at the bottom of some salty pool
through waters chillingly clear.
