Main PagePersonal Anamorphisms

Hast thou got the booke? No? Buy it here

August

This city hoards its water underground,
in slothful rills concealed by silty roads,
enclosed by pinkish, jagged slabs of stone;
a single channel cuts its southern parts
  Fetching vessels full of sand.

Some flippant green bronze fountains, seldom found,
that trickle weary streams through mouths of toads,
mime sword men holding mirage fields alone,
soft asphalt mires on which hard wheels of carts
  Mark the burning roamers' brand.

And when a shy warm wind caresses 'round,
red northern men and eastern maids in loads
can only hear its tale of weightless crone
with distant ears and distant, hoary hearts
  Turned to the snows of their land.

Amid the streets, as rebel giants, bound
by cracked barks and swollen wooden nodes
rare scorched trees speak through cicadae's drone;
while thirsty roots, with slow embroidering arts,
  Weave their sturdy, twisted strand.

Let August time drag steps of skinny hound
in slothful rills concealed by silty roads:
you, word men holding mirage fields alone
with distant eyes and distant eerie hearts
  Weave this subtle, twisted strand.