The Last Evening in May

Within sound’s eternal valleys 

Copper halls ring and equators spread, 

Rising flatly to constance or dread — 

Harp’s tune music to the Ocean’s bed. 

Swans pluck strings on their open wings 

And expose gold behind red and white 

Garlands, draping the rhythms of sight 

Hanging in the Sun’s beacons of light. 

Falling, falling, falling, to night, 

As stern recitals moulded by rings 

Freeze what the palate of bone sings —

Much how all mind came from brainless things? 

The rib-bone flood tilts, enough said,

Half-shut, left eye Moon’s drip on seas, 

Emitting waves of stale liberty, 

Hardening future eternity… 

———————————————————————

Seas gossamer flesh of violet and white 

Said to the Sun dissolving in grey wings, 

“Eternity reposes in the dead, 

Brings guarantee to bright luxuries”…