Room 178

October 30, 2016

o troops of dread, wrath hounds
leaving my fair city
with a hanged man dangling
high from each lamp-post, (o)
most sad boulevard show!
yet nobody will see
the man flogged, crucified,
still, in purple and blue,
sole company a bed rack
in a locked room somewhere

a woman is washing
ash hair with a white
block of soap, one son lost
one son hidden, she sings
and her madness (she fries
thorns in a pan, at night)
clears a spring still all ice
calling an april of hemlock & fires

The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock,
but of wisdom: no clock can measure.

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One Response to “Room 178”


  1. […] intanto, le stanze: 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, […]


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