The Illusions Of Its Joy
I love you more than my cousin of silent thought—
As the blue cat, enamored of Indian headdress, sated by
Porcupines and the first European explorers to this
Region,
Stares from the perch of her dunes
To the silent fumbling of the chaos in the architectures
Of the sea—of a beauty I have never seen before—
And the cenotaph in the waters,
Granite cross, way post for the men who will have
To eat their horses and make rafts out of their ribcages-
Before the Castillo de San Marcos—
The first retirement city coughed a cannon ball across
The bay—and there was any other fantasy we could believe
In—Disney World and the diseases of gated communities—
Before my tiny nostrils first flared—or I walked the streets
Smelling the night blooming jasmine with a woman
Who was not meant to stay with me—
There was this void in a feral heart—
Already some of the heavens had already died—
And your eyes had not yet awakened to your mother,
But the cat on those blue hills sang silently in those cul-de-sacs
That spread up the length of the peninsula with the illusions of its
Joy.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
