The Man Is Grassfor Robert Lowell
Lowell's Frost'ed Boston
Has died in it's yoke like Jesus.
His lips
From Augereau to Vandame
Have passed,
A poor man's Whizzer White,
Sleeping in a pup tent at night,
Working hard to find
Not a working man.

The open mouthed grave
Is closed now,
Quiet,
All the words it took to silence it
Have been said.
Your gull soul
Has flown alone back to the rock,
It's cry
Sadly sweet
Is all that's left to fly.
Beautiful mourner,
The funeral has ended
With your own.

You were not hell,
Only Orpheus returned
With a whiskey bottle full of worms
Fishing for Christ.
A question mark perched on a couch
Who chainsmokeddrank himself
To an end,
Finally tired enough of turmoil to sleep.



home lyrics mp3's news things poetry links contact





Shown: