What has he done, poor terrified pittore,
to end up haled before this stern tribunal?
Bouncing down a West Bank road
fresh from a rally for peace
NOVEMBER 27, 2013 by JOHN LANE
Mother, when my blood rises
it is you that flows through
The lifting mist; a curtain lifts: remnants of a sail.
Happy the stowaways that sail
My daughter is climbing a rope
hand over hand, to the top
of the gym and the heat of the lights
dazzling the eyes into blindness.
in the waking hours
we answer the ancient call
Everyone's raving about it: the new music
performed only by virtuosos with palsied hands.
How odd that you prefer
over a woman alone on a stage.