Beyond the smokestacks and stacked streets
past paper producing factories
are urbania's outstretched talons reaching,
smog clouds grasping, slashing,
I suggest you move along
into the villages whose chimneys
are the children of billowing cities
and houses are headstones of simplicity,
yonder, as thin-leaf maples bleed into pines
and hops and grapevines leap over fine lines
like freeze-frame fish soaring
(into air they can't breathe,
but must bear, to eat, do you wonder
if it is not always so?) -
deeper than the rabbit hole
the sun has fallen,
with rays longer than the heart's harp strings
beyond and past and moving on, yonder
you must soldier on
into long deserted memories
where the beast nests deep his home
a dragon of self-deceit toasts a drink
salud, to health - but whose?
the answer smolders in its eyes
(Guys, I think I'm addicted to Agatha Christie. What happened?)
I was going to write, but I just want to find out what happens in this mystery!
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