Languid swans paddle white:
orange webs in the darkness green
orange bills clasp the chain
to pull a bell that hung serene
from moat's bridge at Well's
palatial stone. Necks careen
their sinuous blur for food.

Bishop Still in stone
prays his ancient dream
in the Cathedral's aisle.
His grandchild engendered
a Concord race endangered
by King Philip's guile.
From this many storied beam
I descend, bone by buried bone.

Fabled steps cascade in waves
worn round by tourists' tread
as Petals temporal flutter
down from stamen head,
as Tears curl cheek and lip
to cheer indifferent dead.
Still must I correct my thoughts?

For I have erred. I have erred.
I have slipped down the bathroom stairs.
I am old, too old.
My shoulders quake
as my fingers quiver and skate
along a wheelchair spoke
half covered by a dusty cloak.
Death grins, grasps my broken hip
as I awake to astral glare.

My fingers furl those rusty wheels
as the bell skulls peel.
Each digit a swan's neck gasping,
my groan their honks rasping.
Their hunger in my hopes lie
as they shake wing and I die.

03/03/2001