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At the Grave of Hart Crane
Her swell is soft today. Someone has poured gin on her throbbing shoulders, and her spasm purrs, as she merely remembers the exacerbation of exorcise. You watched on the shore and vowed her Melville’s tomb, and the years-later lady acknowledges your marriage in irony, now as when her heart burst on the bottom of the Caribbean. Now the scuttling singers of your shadow zigzag over her young white poet, vestiged by shark. Her buoys say, mark, and the tide churns in this your grave. You are the ghost of monody, drowned beyond reach of the pirate hands of time and money. Our world is victim of those and diverse hands, we wreckage with you sifted by her love, not those hands that stalked you on land, giving your head horns after high noon on the walls and streets of Mexico. It does not matter on page or out there, in the all-spirit where you are. Those hands could not hold your fabulous shadow from wombs where you sleep, your skull beyond coxcomb or crown where we hear but not find you, with the breathing, heaving memories of your widow, the sea.
Read by me: https://soundcloud.com/msscheffer/at-the-grave-of-hart-crane
This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2015-02-21 09:37:17
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
What are the three elements of good poetry? Imagery,imagery, imagery and here you prevail. Good to see your work again. JCH
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