Hazel Night, Train & O, To Be

Hazel Night

The moon looks quite pleased with itself tonight;
O, this is my favourite time of year! If only I could
Share it! The window open to the last notch, looking
Out over the green deeps of garden and vibrant azure
Of sky. My sill sits me in cigarette smoke as the still
Of the air moves not a wave or wisp of it until Nature
Deems their dissemination; the hazel night: O, but to
See it reflected in your eyes!


Train

Downtrack from two-hundred beach kids,
A macerated body.

Weston-Super-Mare must wait as the young
Girl throws up on platform two,

From drinking; not from the mangled flesh
Entangled in the train’s undercarriage.

Sunday morning, a church looks on,
Over suicide and misspent youth.

A pluterperfect air stilling the eerie beginnings
Of this day of precipitance.

The myth of Sisyphus to me, onwatching;
The cause of such a fuss, to the rest.


O, To Be

O, to be Allen Ginsberg!
And not one of his minds,
In another generation.

O, to be William Wordsworth!
In the French Revolution;
Alive and young again!

O, to be Walt Whitman!
Seeing, smelling and smiling
Across America.

O, to be Daniel Bristow!
As a whole, not a half;
Would be the answer.