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Poesía, Issue 10 | June 2013

     

Busman’s Holiday

The grail, machined to sate
the common thirst of the common
man. The common man, grail
for geraniums. Under the stone

bridge of lions sultant past
the swans we floated in this
small boat. Even the new leaves
are steeped in cold dew,

cold and sweet as new day.
I’m sorry, but we distrust
your talk of a future: we live
now, and live as brothers, as

lovers. We don’t understand
our impulse, nor the cloud,
nor the color of the leaf,
nor the grail, nor the cloud,

nor the cloud. Nor do we thirst
for the wine of rebellion
or give them the vinegar
of comfort, nor begrudge them

their privileges, the busman’s
holiday, the pop opera. We are strong
as longshoremen, and as simple,
and as awful, and as brave, and as fearful.
Busman’s Holiday