it is the young, creaking and tangled woods
by Stan Petrovich
in a rising morning mist,
an eye alighted by the flash of amethyst;
and a galloping of a carriage conveying goods
to the town where I am welcome.
and my lover's quarelling mind alone
in her self-suffering thoughts
(that I also make my own) ,
to be with her there, together distraught
in the little town where we are celebrated..
death's doom sounds, above all the foliage
a greening penumbra of flagrant sound,
a rush of scattering birds,
where run wolves chased by inchoate hounds,
never, never to be carriaged
near the village where we prepare to die.
still our final stance is vivid
and we enter joy forever; it has been meant,
in the streets that undulate nowhere
nowhere near a perpendicular settlement.