In the city I made small eyes at the gods leering from the corners of buildings. Golden halosand mosaics — I tried to sing, write to them. A matter of linking arm in arm with past mothers, fathers, kings. (A poet named Babe Ruth would point his pen at the muse before writing.)
Mother Tongue
Mother Tongue
Mother Tongue
In the city I made small eyes at the gods leering from the corners of buildings. Golden halosand mosaics — I tried to sing, write to them. A matter of linking arm in arm with past mothers, fathers, kings. (A poet named Babe Ruth would point his pen at the muse before writing.)