I present to you a poem; strictest meter it has kept.

Where by you, the reader thinking, 'Is the author here inept?'

So I sit with eyelids closing, drearily my style sing

All the while I am burning here atop the compost ring.


High atop a mountain distant, Wednesday calls to me again

Asking simple me a question, 'How can you stand burning, man?'

If a dish of burning soil has, they say, a certain smell

Cast from humus cast to fire can it well be thought as well?


Pulp of paper, drop of leaf and insect, seed and woody stem

Shall be said to smell from fire as a rotten compost shall.

She is going to the kitchen, glass of water for to get.

'Can I bring you back, in passing, something equally as wet?'


So I feel my feet in ashes, feel my lashes growing beat,

Feel my head sink to the pillow like the fire to my feet.

Watching Wednesday climb the willow call my name into the sky,

Here atop the compost pile with my throat so parched and dry,

Asking for a glass of water as the burning sky rolls by.

Poetry and Prose Archives

Mr. Christopher

06.11.03 Front Page

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